


Roots in My Dreamland

by litbeyondmeasure



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: A Lot of Flirting on All Sides, Angst, Between Seasons/Series, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e10 The Moment of Truth, Episode: s05e04 Another's Sorrow, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gays Speed Running Relationships Because Time is Short, Good Morgana (Merlin), Gwen and Mithian Actually Get a Happy Ending, Gwen and Mithian Both Realise That Morgana Fucked Them Up, Gwen and Mithian Share A Braincell, Gwen is a Bad-Ass Queen, Hurt/Comfort, I Had a Great Time Writing Morgana/Mithian So Chapter Three is Kind Of Long, Implied/Referenced Sex, Intimate Scenes But Nothing Explicit, Knife Merlin, Knife Mithian, Merlin Has Long Hair Because Fuck It Why Not, Mithian Being Totally Cool With Magic, Mithian's Change in Hair Colour Headcanon, Morgana Realises That Morgause is Using Her, My (Poor) Attempts to Rectify the Mess Made of Merlin and Gwen's Friendship by the Writers, POV Gwen (Merlin), POV Mithian (Merlin), POV Morgana (Merlin), Post-Battle of Camlann (Merlin), Post-Canon, Queen Gwen (Merlin), Queen Mithian (Merlin), Reminiscing, S1 Morgwen, Specifically Between S2 and S3 (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29662713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litbeyondmeasure/pseuds/litbeyondmeasure
Summary: The fates of Morgana, Guinevere, and Mithian are intertwined in more ways than one. Not only have they shared the same burdens as monarchs, but they have also shared one another's hearts. Concealed tears and captured kisses have been their own secret language of their illicit affairs over the years, but it's high time that silence is broken as the world crumbles and built once more.(Written for Day 1 of Camelove2021: Ladies First)
Relationships: Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin), Gwen & Leon (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Mithian (Merlin), Gwen/Mithian/Morgana (Merlin), Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Merlin & Mithian (Merlin), Mithian/Morgana (Merlin), Morgana & Morgause (Merlin)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 8
Collections: Camelove 2021





	1. Prologue

**Camelot**

_Dearest Guinevere,_

_I am deeply sorry to hear of your_ – _and Camelot's_ – _loss. Arthur was a kind man and a noble king, and I will never forget everything that he did for me and my kingdom. It is through him that Nemeth and Camelot, I hope, will remain strong allies, and I only wish I could have spared more men to aid your knights at Camlann. Please do not be a stranger, Guinevere. I would not wish to intrude upon your grief, but Arthur's manservant, Merlin, was found unconscious outside the gates by a patrol last night and I believe it would do you both good to be near each other. I know how close you were years ago. I am more than willing to accompany him to Camelot, if you so desire, or if you should wish to have a little breathing space then you are always welcome in Nemeth._

_My deepest condolences,_

_Queen Mithian._

Guinevere set down the letter and closed her eyes. She had been expecting Mithian to be there herself at Camlann, leading her troops, but Arthur had taken her to one side when she’d questioned the leader’s absence. In Mithian’s own words, Arthur had said, her tendency to fall for Morgana’s charms, paired with the recent loss of her father, had rendered her incapable of leading anyone. Gwen’s anger had ebbed away, then. Falling for Morgana’s charms was something they had in common, and she couldn’t resent her for wanting to keep well away if possible. Gwen herself had been nervous to be so close, but she hadn’t been about to abandon Arthur.  


Opening her eyes, she skimmed the letter again. Her flurried gaze tripped on a name that she’d glossed over during her first read and her heart jumped into her mouth. Merlin was in Nemeth. Merlin, who had sent word with the wind that Arthur was dead, who had vanished without a trace, who had only recently been able to look at Gwen properly since she had almost got him executed. And Mithian, wonderful Mithian, looking out for him when Guinevere was unable to. Hands shaking, she dipped her quill in ink and unsteadily began to draft out a reply, pausing to look out of the window.  


She had grown accustomed – every so gradually, but accustomed nonetheless – to Arthur’s absence in the several months that had elapsed since Camlann. He had been with her in the actions she’d taken to preserve Camelot, in the alliances drawn up and the rebuilding of the citadel. He was with her as she walked through the lower town, in the smiles of Leon and Percival, and the complaints of a recovering Gwaine. She saw Elyan in her surroundings as well. It had been a long time since he had lurked with half-finished weapons in the workshop their father had owned, but she and Leon often returned to it at dusk, to smile at the beams they used to swing from as children and the shelves they had unceremoniously shoved one another into.  


Guinevere hadn’t had the chance to grieve the loss of her brother. After recovering from the enchantment, she had been thrust into the threat of war and then Arthur had gone… She set down her quill and massaged her forehead. It had been double the grief for the past few months, and she was just grateful that Gwaine hadn’t been added to that list. All the numbness Morgana had inflicted upon her had crumbled like the legacy Uther had wanted to leave as soon as the spell had been lifted, and Guinevere had been jumping from one emotion to the next ever since. Perhaps it would be good to get away for a while and visit Nemeth. She’d always wanted to see it. Raising her head, she let out a sigh, and finished her letter. She couldn’t leave Camelot. Arthur would haunt her if she did.  


She bit her lip. No, Arthur wouldn’t haunt her; he himself had talked about running away to the countryside more than once. But it would be an insult to his memory to leave so soon. The kingdom was stable for the moment, but Guinevere was well aware of the gossip that would spread if she put one toe out of line. She herself had been part of that gossip once upon a time.  


Throwing a handful of sand over the ink and waiting for it to dry, Guinevere stared into the middle of the room. It would be good to have Merlin in court when she overturned the many laws that had forbidden magic for so long. Her best friend wouldn’t need to hide any longer. Struck by a sudden thought, she reached for a second piece of parchment and scrawled his name at the top, throwing all of her careful calligraphy out of the window as she scratched her soul onto the page, the ink smudges silently pleading for his return. Six months was more than enough time to come to terms with Merlin's true identity; Guinevere had barely required six days before she had been itching to embrace her friend again. Gwaine had taken a little longer – but then again he had almost perished at the hands of magic – and the remaining knights had had to deconstruct years of taught thought patterns in the space of several months. She closed her eyes again. Camelot had caused so many people so much pain, in such ways that it wasn't obvious to the eye, either, but she would be damned if she allowed that to continue. Opening her eyes and folding both letters, Guinevere dripped wax over them and stamped down her seal and left her chambers.  


As she walked down the corridors, the sun splashed against her cheeks through the windows and she hesitated at an alcove across the way, succumbing to the nostalgia and momentarily nestling herself in it. It was there that Arthur had caught her by the wrist and caused her to drop Morgana’s laundry as he whisked her close to his chest, tenderly kissing her mouth. She hadn’t told him, then, that it was the same place that Morgana had kissed her almost two years before, only weeks after promising never to do so again. Guinevere would take that secret with her to the grave.  


Standing with her hand on the stone for a little while longer, Guinevere absorbed the dregs of the sunlight smeared across the wall and took a deep breath. Each day without Arthur, without Elyan, got a little easier, and she could feel her frame seizing the little strength that returned to her with each morning stretch of the sun. She knew that the council were already whispering about the need for relations to be strengthened with marriage – they really didn’t hang about in Guinevere’s opinion – and despite Leon’s expressed displeasure at their haste when he had quietly informed her, Guinevere knew that she would have to marry again one day. Her hand moved to her stomach. One day soon, in all likelihood.  


Still, she supposed it was better than being displaced by Morgana. But Morgana was dead. Her body had been found by a patrol and brought back to Camelot. She lay not in the tomb with Uther – as much pain as she had caused Gwen, the queen hadn’t been able to bring herself to lay her former friend to rest for eternity with the man who had caused her self-destruction – but with the roots of a yew tree on the edge of the Darkling Woods. Guinevere had left several bunches of flowers, like the ones she’d plucked so long ago, on the makeshift grave over the past few months, allowing herself to grieve for the friend she lost so long ago. She had been in two minds about mentioning that Morgana was buried in Camelot to Mithian, before deciding against it for the time being, what with Mithian’s history with the former ward of Camelot.  


Mind now collected, Guinevere moved from the alcove and followed the mental path to the training ground, dipping her head at those who passed by her on the way. She could have talked out her intentions with Gaius, but Gaius had his hands full with Gwaine, and Leon had proven himself to be just as much of a voice of reason. And it was less awkward to talk about matters of the heart with him. Perhaps one day she would tell him about the encounter that had been constantly on the fringes of her mind recently, but she doubted that. It was a piece of Morgana that seemed almost sacred, now, and Guinevere had felt privileged to have held it then. They had promised one another that they would take the memory of each other’s lips to their deaths and Guinevere had a strong feeling that it was the only promise Morgana had ever kept since turning her back on them.


	2. Guinevere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of the Battle of Ealdor, Gwen and Morgana spend a sleepless night together where they are thrown into an unprecedented situation.

**Ealdor**

_11 years earlier  
_

Gwen shifted for the third time in half an hour, cringing as she elbowed Morgana in the ribs. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes and waited for the yelp or kick in return, tentatively opening them when she wasn’t met with one. Turning over again and tucking her hand under her cheek, she allowed herself the luxury of glancing at Morgana’s face. In the darkness, the pale eyes she knew so well glinted.  


‘Sorry,’ she whispered, her voice seeming to carry for miles in the silence.  


‘It’s fine, Gwen. I was awake anyway.’  


Morgana’s words wafted over a strong scent of mint – Gwen had caught her chewing on some leaves earlier that day – and there was a smile present that wasn’t quite visible in the shadows. Gwen should have expected Morgana to be awake; the latter struggled enough to fall asleep in her own bed, let alone in an unfamiliar place and nestled right beside her maid. Now conscious of their proximity, Gwen shuffled slightly further away from Morgana. Perhaps they should have topped and tailed as Merlin and Arthur had done.  


‘What are you thinking?’  


The intimate touch of her breath reached across to caress Gwen’s neck. At the delicate impact, Gwen closed her eyes. ‘Nothing. It’s just…It would be useful if I could get some sleep, that’s all.’  


There was a soft thump as Morgana raised herself onto her elbow, dropping her blankets. ‘Do you want to know what I do if I can’t sleep?’  


‘What?’  


‘I get out of bed and go for a walk around the castle.’  


‘In the middle of the night?’  


‘In the middle of the night. It’s an exhaustion tactic. Works wonders. Did you want to give it a go?’  


Quietly sliding from beneath the blankets, so as not to disturb the others, Gwen dusted herself off and gripped her arms in response. Having heard the manoeuvres, Morgana quickly followed suit and dragged her cloak around her shoulders. They slipped out of the house together and as they were faced with the breeze, Gwen felt a slight touch on the back of her neck and turned her head. In the moonlight, Morgana was offering half of her cloak and a gentle smile.  


Accepting the garment with a bowed head, Gwen nudged her way beside Morgana, resisting the urge to reach for her hand. They had been this physically close many times before – usually in the mornings when Gwen helped her dress – but in the privacy of the night it felt different. They had grown up together, Gwen being shown everything by an older servant, and had watched one another flourish. Time in the royal household – or noble households, at least – had been something Gwen was already accustomed to, having often shadowed her mother in her work at Leon’s household. It hadn’t been so different from serving a lady, especially when it was Morgana.  


Morgana had been harsh and cold towards everybody when she had first arrived in Camelot – everybody but Gwen. After catching Morgana crying in her chambers when she had brought in flowers, she had quietly sat in the floor by her bed and simply said: ‘I lost my mother last month.’ From that moment, Morgana had never said a harsh word to Gwen, and had even allowed Gwen to introduce her to Leon and Elyan a few weeks later. Gwen hastily shut down any thoughts of her brother and focused instead on the brush of Morgana’s hand against her thigh as she readjusted the cloak.  


The stars were clearer than back in Camelot, what with there being no torches constantly obscuring the constellations, and Gwen halted for a moment, her eyes tracing the dips and flourishes through the feeble clouds. Her half of the cloak dropped but she let it fall, enchanted by the patterns. Morgana, who hadn’t realised that she had left her friend behind until the cloak found its way to the ground, squatted down to retrieve it and glanced back.  


When Gwen returned to the present her gaze stumbled across Morgana who still had one knee on the ground and a soft expression of amusement on her face. Feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, Gwen hastily caught up with the king’s ward and offered to help her off the ground. Morgana graciously accepted her hand and left her palm in Gwen’s for a little longer than what was necessary, her fingers trailing down Gwen’s wrist as she let go. They’d only been out in the open for less than ten minutes, but Gwen was already casting side glances towards the shelter that they’d left behind. She wasn’t feeling particularly exhausted, though; if anything she was more alert than she had been inside. Perhaps it was the threat of Kanen and his men, but they hadn’t attacked the village at night before – quite why remained a mystery – so she doubted that they would on that particular night. Still, there was an edge to the quiet that Gwen couldn’t quite identify, so she instead sought out the cover of Morgana’s cloak once more.  


They wound silently together, picking a path towards the woods, and Gwen glanced back at the village again. This was where Merlin had grown up and been shaped into the person he was, and she could now clearly understand his behaviour when he had first arrived in Camelot. Hunith had told her and Morgana of Merlin’s misadventures with ‘Old Man’ Simmons, though it felt like there was more to some of the stories, and it had become quickly apparent that Merlin challenging authority figures was a pattern he had developed in early childhood. Gwen unconsciously bumped against Morgana as they ducked beneath thick branches and opened her mouth to express wariness at leaving the village, before catching sight of the moon.  


‘That’s beautiful,’ she quietly said, stopping dead in the centre of a thicket.  


Morgana turned her head curiously. ‘You’re not afraid of it?’  


Tearing her eyes away from the sky to stare at Morgana, Gwen’s mouth retained its stunned shape. ‘Afraid of it? It’s not going to come and bite me, is it?’  


‘No,’ laughed Morgana. ‘But isn’t a red moon usually a bad omen?’  


‘It might be for Kanen, but I don’t think it will be for us.’  


Morgana’s gaze lingered for a little longer before she pulled her eyes away so as not to stumble over fallen branches. Her fingers, when they brushed against Gwen’s, were cold, but her palm was warm when Gwen settled her own within it. As she looked over, the mysterious hue of the moon added a rather violent twist to the curves of Morgana’s lips and, if it had been someone that Gwen didn’t know with her whole heart then she would have taken a step back. But Morgana would never hurt her, she knew that. They were too intimately intertwined with one another to be cut apart without casualty. Still not being quite sure what precisely had possessed her to take Morgana’s hand, Gwen let them remain joined, not having the guts to backtrack what she’d so blatantly undertaken. Besides, there was a pleasant pressure to the grip of her lady, with assurance seeping through the pores and into the folds along Gwen’s palm.  


There had been that same assurance when Gwen had quietly slipped into Morgana’s chambers after Hunith’s audience with Uther. She had quietly requested for a few days’ leave to accompany Merlin to the Ealdor and found the assurance in the smile flashed towards her and the determined hand in the half-packed bag on the bed, which had then fumbled with her own. Gwen’s own hands were rough from the numerous chores she had undertaken over the years and it had always settled her that Morgana’s still bore the scars of callouses from her weapons training as a child. If Morgana was no less of a lady for her imperfections – albeit as minute as they were – then perhaps Gwen was no less worthy of anything for hers.  


‘Are you getting tired yet?’ Morgana asked, seeming to pull her closer through their joined hands.  


Gwen shook her head. ‘Every minute I’m out here I feel more awake.’  


‘Perhaps we just accept that sleep is not going to be our ally tonight.’ Morgana glanced behind them. ‘We could go back, if you wanted.’  


‘No, no. I’d prefer to stay out here, if you don’t mind. Less chance of waking the others up.’  


‘I don’t mind at all. Will you be warm enough?’  


Gwen shyly looked at her. ‘I have you.’  


Then, quite unceremoniously, Morgana kissed Gwen on the mouth. She pulled away, without much decorum for one who was usually so composed, and her eyes shone in the translucent darkness as Gwen studied them, her shallow breathing penetrating the silence. Gwen’s own breath had been stolen by the action and she struggled to string together words. When she had said that she had Morgana, she had meant in the sense that she was stood beside her and stealing the majority of her body heat. Although she had been fully conscious of the connotations of the words as she had been shaping them in her mind and taken no lengths to alter the meaning. Perhaps…  


She took Morgana’s cheek in her spare hand and raised herself up on the points of her toes in an effort to reach the lips that had smiled at her so many times. Firmly telling herself that it was merely an act to conserve heat, she pushed down the small thrill that leapt out as Morgana responded in an affirmative manner. Quite how there could be such strength in Morgana’s skin, Gwen was none the wiser, and she was too preoccupied to make a verbal note of it.  


She had come to terms with the knowledge that she had always admired Morgana a little too much to be healthy long ago, satiating her desires with quick smiles in the mirror or the soft weight of Morgana’s hair in the mornings, the delicate collision of their skin when helping her dress. The mornings had always been her favourite time, since she had started serving Morgana; the sun always had the most wonderful habit of falling in all the right places on the ward’s face. Gwen would often quietly open the curtains and allow herself several moments to watch the sunlight freckle Morgana’s face. As Gwen had moved, so had the light, burying itself in her hair like it was waiting for someone to follow suit and mine for the precious stones it left scattered between the strands of her dark hair. Then Gwen had broken the spell and gently woken her. But now the nights had taken on a different meaning, one that translated the shape of Morgana's lips to tangible touch rather than Gwen's imagination.  


It was Gwen who was the first to pull away this time, when her toes couldn't take her weight any longer, and she dropped Morgana's hand and her gaze, sheepishly staring at the ground. Quite _what_ had possessed her there as well, Gwen still hadn’t the faintest idea, but it hadn't been entirely horrible. By the sound of the silence, Morgana was still recovering. As the quiet stretched out, the floodgates of Gwen’s mind opened to fill the gaps. If Morgana hadn’t wanted to be kissed, well, then, Gwen would have to leave her service. And that wouldn’t be so bad; she could always help her father until she found something else. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to see Morgana, but then that would be for the best. But there was the chance that Morgana would tell Arthur, who might tell Uther…  


‘And here I was about to apologise to you,’ Morgana finally said, applying a weight to her words that made it sound like they had been chosen with care. ‘And we’re not animals; we can control ourselves, can’t we?’  


‘Of course.’  


‘And there’s nothing suggestive about holding hands,’ continued Morgana, holding out the aforementioned object.  


Gwen accepted it. ‘Absolutely not.’ She hesitated. ‘If you didn’t want me to—’  


‘Gwen. I started this.’ The lips that had met Gwen’s curved as Morgana spoke. ‘I should have asked you to start off with.’  


‘It’s alright. It was nice.’  


Morgana quirked an eyebrow. ‘ _Nice?_ I’m the second most desired woman in the whole kingdom—’  


‘Who’s the first?’  


‘You are. Anyway, I’m the second most desired woman in the whole of Camelot, and all you have to say is that it was _nice?_ I can only apologise for disappointing you, as well as myself, particularly as I have always put serious store by the sorcery my lips can craft.’  


‘There are many things to discuss there.’  


‘Go ahead; I’ve got all night.’  


Gwen bit back a laugh. It was ridiculous how giddy she was feeling, and she was thankful for Morgana’s strong grip. As long as she didn’t pass out, then everything would be okay. ‘I disagree with your opinion of me being the most desired woman in Camelot—’  


‘And I disagree with your disagreement.’  


‘—and I wouldn’t be boasting about sorcery if I were you.’  


Morgana shrugged. ‘We’re not in Camelot now. I can say what I like about sorcery.’  


‘And it wasn’t a disappointment,’ Gwen said after a hesitation. ‘It was more than nice, too. I just don’t have the capacity to think of an appropriate word to describe it at the moment. Can I get back to you in an hour or so?’  


When Morgana laughed, Gwen had to glance down to check that she wasn’t floating five feet above the ground. ‘If you wish.’  


As her words died, the ringing of her delight lingered in the air like a soft breeze. Unable to bite back the rather large smile rapidly spreading across her face, Gwen squeezed Morgana’s hand and followed her further into the woods. They had lost sight of the moon, having ducked behind a cluster of trees, but the stars formed a path for them to follow. Neither were entirely sure of where exactly they were going, apart from walking until they no longer could before eventually having to turn around again. They moved together without purpose, fumbling with each other’s hands as they navigated the shadowed ground, and Gwen finally had to lean against a tree for a moment as her ankle threatened to give way at the fifth twig she had almost tripped over.  


She watched Morgana, who was still holding her hand, shyly beneath her eyelashes. Morgana seemed to be deliberately looking at everything but Gwen, with the latter understanding why when their eyes finally meant. There was a shy hunger in Morgana’s, which Gwen knew was a reflection of her own, and Morgana raised her other hand to run her fingers down Gwen’s cheek. Seeking permission this time, she tenderly met Gwen’s lips and tugged at them with her teeth, as if she were trying her best to get as close to Gwen's pounding heart as she could be widening the opening. Gwen frowned. That was not a very poetic way of thinking about it. As she shrugged the thought off, she loosened her hand from Morgana's grip and brought it up to the latter's face, cradling the ebbing warmth of her cheeks with her palms.  


She wanted to light every fibre of Morgana's being on fire – but not in a destructive manner. She wanted to do it with small curling flames that sent shots of heat through her very core. And gently, ever so gently, her fingers began to slip down Morgana's skin to strike the flint that was her body and ignite the spark. Gwen had held back all her life, had always allowed Elyan to take the lead or Leon – and Morgana and Arthur had always borne the right to take the lead by birth – but under the intimate sheets of night, Gwen was finally letting herself to take a little control.  


For the moment, Morgana appeared more than happy for her to do so and their fingers became knotted together as they both struggled with Morgana's belt. For all they knew, they could die tomorrow. Might as well go out with a bang. Having finally succeeded in removing the belt, Gwen began to pull at other garments, inhaling words from the king's ward that were never quite coherently shaped as she went. The grip woven through the strings of her own clothing was strong and, as Morgana's hand fluttered up the open shirt, Gwen pulled away and hit her head against the tree.  


Morgana hastily turned her laugh into a cough and removed her hand to check there wasn't a bump forming. The concern in her face was highlighted like comets by the moonlight. 'We don't have to do this if you don't want to, Gwen, it's perfectly alright.'  


'No, I want to, I'm just aware that we're still quite close to the village. And we've lost the cloak.'  


'We'll find it in the morning. And we can go a little further, if you like?'  


Nodding, Gwen took her hand again as they resumed regimented movement. 'Will it change things between us, do you think?' she finally asked.  


'It might,' Morgana said after a moment of contemplation. 'But it could bring us closer.'  


'I'm not sure if we can get any closer.'  


'Certainly couldn't a minute ago.' Noticing Gwen's silence – and perhaps her burning cheeks, if the heat had travelled to her palms – Morgana cleared her throat. 'I didn't mean that in a bad way, you know.'  


'I know. It's all just so...new.'  


'I understand. It's new to me as well, if that helps.'  


Gwen spared a smile as they stumbled into a clearing surrounded by yet another thicket. The ground was softer there, with less of the decaying debris and jutting stones, and she dropped Morgana's hand to squat down and test it. A second later something floated down beside her and she frowned.  


'I thought we dropped the cloak.'  


'Turns out it was tucked in my trousers.' Morgana straightened it out. 'I was wondering what the dragging noise was. Is here okay then?'  


'Here is perfect.'  


Despite knowing what was coming next, Gwen was still startled by the stark glare of Morgana's bare shoulders as she pulled the layers over her head. Gwen traced the scars from many childhood riding accidents with a hushed sense of awe. She's seen them before, of course, when preparing Morgana's bath, but never physically explored them. As she occupied herself there, Morgana reached out to entice away one hand, slowly kissing each of the callouses that had made their nest on Gwen's skin. Pulling away to wriggle out of her own clothes, they both separately undressed with an anxious uncertainty. Once they had folded their clothes into neat stacks, they gazed at each other with the same curiosity that the sun and the moon have on the rare occasion when their eyes meet.  


Morgana opened her mouth but no sound came out, and she instead hauled herself closer. Gwen could recognise the graceful graze along her thigh before succumbing to Morgana's skin and the stars.

* * *

It was the shadows that fell on Morgana's hair that morning, not sunlight. Somewhere between falling on top of each other and the dawn chorus they'd both fallen asleep, unconsciously wrapping the cloak around them as a makeshift blanket. Despite her best efforts to not elbow Morgana again, Gwen did when she heard their names being called. Startled, she went to leap up before realising that she was wearing no clothes and instead gently poked Morgana in the side slightly more insistently with her toes.  


When Morgana slept, she slept heavily, and Gwen was seriously considering kissing her awake after picking up a nearby stick that was doing nothing to hasten the situation. However, she seemed to have hit upon the right spot between Morgana’s ribs when the latter woke up with a yelp, instantly looking around for a weapon.  


‘It’s okay,’ Gwen whispered. ‘We’re not under attack. It’s just that the others are looking for us and we’re still naked.’  


‘Fuck.’ As Morgana raised her hands to tie up her hair, the cloak slipped down and Gwen tactfully averted her eyes. It felt strange to study Morgana so blatantly in daylight. ‘We’re going to get dressed and pick up as many big sticks as we can – not a euphemism,’ she added with a smirk. ‘When they ask what we were doing, we’ll say that we couldn’t sleep and decided to try and find any makeshift weapons and potential kindling.’  


Gwen nodded. ‘Right.’  


Reaching for her clothes, Morgana frowned. ‘You don’t sound convinced.’  


‘It’s just—’ Gwen made the mistake of glancing over and stumbling across Morgana’s chest. ‘It’s just that I’m not particularly fond of lying outright to people I'm friends with.’  


‘It’s either lying or telling them what really happened when we couldn’t sleep. And anyway, I can do all of the talking. So you technically wouldn’t be lying, you’d just not be correcting me.’  


Nodding slowly, Gwen reached out for her own clothes. ‘I suppose so. I’ve been meaning to ask: do you usually do what we did last night when you can’t sleep?’  


Morgana laughed and dropped her half of the cloak on Gwen as she rose. ‘No, no, this was a one-off.’  


With a shy smile, Gwen slowly began to dress beneath the cloak, keeping her head bowed as she heard the rustling of leaves as Morgana also pulled on her clothes. The voices were growing closer and, becoming frantic, Gwen pushed off the cloak to fumble with the strings on her clothing. Extracting foliage from her hair, she twisted it into a tight knot at the back of her head and braved glancing at Morgana to assess how far along she was. Morgana was struggling to secure her belt and, had they been in Camelot, Gwen would have assisted her in a heartbeat. But they weren’t in Camelot; they were in a strange world where it seemed acceptable to sneak off on the eve of battle and passionately kiss each other in the woods. And Gwen wasn’t entirely sure where she stood there.  


Thankfully, Morgana had managed to sort out her belt and glanced towards Gwen, diverting the latter’s thoughts. ‘There’s an old dress of mine that I think would suit you—’ she began, before being swiftly cut off.  


‘My Lady, I couldn’t—’  


A smile and a small shake of the head came from the king’s ward. ‘Hear me out, Gwen. The sleeves have been torn and you know full well that the purpose of all of my clothes from Uther is to be as awkward as possible, so it is of no use to me. I thought that perhaps you could take it and alter it for yourself, make it less…gaudy.’  


‘I believe I know the one you mean, and you always look stunning in it.’  


‘I wasn’t fishing for compliments, Gwen,’ Morgana said with a wry smile, holding out her hand to receive the cloak.  


‘No, but I thought you deserved the truth.’  


‘And you deserve an extravagant dress.’ Having draped the cloak around her shoulders, Morgana started to rearrange her hair again. ‘You have done so much for me.’  


‘And you have done so much for me, my Lady,’ Gwen quietly replied, watching her hands bury themselves in her thick hair.  


‘Gwen, this isn’t a competition. And we’ve just had sex—’ At Gwen’s frantic look, she laughed and lowered her voice, dropping to sit cross-legged in front of her maid. ‘—you don’t have to call me “my Lady” for the rest of the day, at least.’ She pecked her on the nose and then stood up again. ‘Thank you.’  


‘What for?’  


‘Indulging me. I don’t know.’ Morgana paused. ‘Actually, I do. For being you. For never once wearing a mask in all the time I’ve known you. For unashamedly being yourself. Which is why I’m so sorry to ask this of you.’  


Gwen rose to her feet, brow furrowed. ‘Ask what of me?’  


‘That you never breathe a word of what happened last night to anyone. And that we never do it again.’ Morgana took her hands. ‘If Uther found out, you’d be exiled at best—’  


‘—and executed at worst, I know,’ Gwen sighed. She brought Morgana’s hand to her lips. ‘I would do anything you ask, you know that? And if keeping this a secret means that we can still be one another, then I will gladly sacrifice the memory of last night.’  


‘I’m not asking you to forget,’ Morgana hastily added. ‘I know I won’t. Of course, if you want to forget, then by all means go ahead.’  


Hearing the underlying panic, Gwen raised her eyes. ‘I don’t want to. And I won’t. We have a piece of each other, now, for the rest of our lives, whatever may come.’ She kissed her palm gently. ‘Thank you for showing me the stars.’  


Morgana closed her eyes as she pressed her forehead to Gwen’s. ‘And thank you for being the glorious dawn that wakes me up each morning.’  


There was one last kiss before they dropped hands upon emerging into civilisation, and the rest was all stolen glances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get some water and take a break. It's (mostly) all angst from here.


	3. Morgana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the fallout of Morgause's failed coup and her narrow escape from poison, Morgana flees from her sister and runs into her childhood companion.

**Gedref**

_2 years later_

Morgana stirred in a bed that she didn’t recognise and, bewildered, sat up against the headboard, her hair falling in synchronisation with the sheets around her legs. She could feel the heat of the bright day outside, the sun pummelling through the stained-glass window, and she looked around her in silence as she tried to piece together fragmented memories. Her hand fell to her throat. It was like a knife had been taken to the circumference of its inside and she tried to clear it, satisfied by the tremulous sound that emerged from it.  


Drawing the sheets around her shoulders, Morgana slid from the bed and padded towards the window to unhook the latch. She didn’t question her change of clothes, instead questioning the change of scenery. The lower town of Camelot was no longer visible from the window; there was a vast expanse of trees stretching out for miles and, if she focused, she could make out the quiet birdsong.  


Then she remembered why her throat was sore and almost fell out the window.  


Fumbling for a grip on the stone alcove surrounding the glass, Morgana drew several deep breaths and reached out ever so slightly with her mind. She could feel her sister lingering on the fringes of her thoughts, prepared to anticipate her needs, but Morgana wasn’t ready to face her at that moment. She couldn’t possibly process everything in the confines of a castle – substantial in space as it was – and dropped the sheets where she stood. She had to take it one step at a time. First, she had to dress. Gaze sweeping across the chambers, she alighted on a wardrobe and gently crossed the room, selecting whatever gave when her hand brushed against it.  


Slowly undressing, Morgana pulled the fresh garments up her limbs, feeling her own hands skitter across her shoulders, rather than Gwen’s. She closed her eyes. As far as she was aware, Gwen hadn’t been injured in the blurry events of recent days, and she wanted nothing more than to have her by her side. Gwen wasn’t safe in Camelot, not if Merlin was going around poisoning people who were his friends. Shaking her head furiously, she opened her eyes and set her mouth into a thin line as she secured the fur draped across her with a thick belt. Any thoughts of Merlin were banned.  


As she twisted back her hair, Morgana reached for a sword by the table and tightened the scabbard around her waist, fingers curving absent-mindedly around the hilt. It was a plain gold, unornamented, and felt like a stranger to her palm. She’d grown so used to the one Gwen had commissioned for her birthday the year before, accustomed to the imprints left by the delicate jewels after use. That had been a frivolous idea and she never would have said anything to Gwen, had the image of it not appeared to her in a dream. Little had Morgana known that as she had been describing the weapon, hands dancing, Gwen was making mental notes of every detail as she combed through Morgana’s hair.  


Morgana unsheathed the sword to study the blade. No flowers were engraved in the metal and she returned it to its cave, pushing aside thoughts of Gwen. She had no idea if she would return to Camelot – she supposed that was down to Morgause, as her sister seemed to be the one with the intricate designs on how to bring about the end of Uther’s reign – so there was no use dwelling on what she had been forced to abandon. What Merlin had forced her to abandon.  


Remembering her oath from only minutes ago and how quickly it had been broken, Morgana swept a vase to the floor, sending shards flying across the flagstones as she tried to catch her breath. She should never have told him about her magic. He thought she was a monster and had tried to kill her for it. And Morgause… Morgause was using her as a piece on a chessboard and Morgana had had enough of that over the past few months. She had been under the protection of her father, then under the protection of the king, and now under the protection of her sister – Morgana had been shifted from one castle to the other with no say in her fate for all her life. It was high time she took the chance to decide where _she_ wanted to settle, not to where was convenient for other people.  


She would end up by Morgause eventually, that she knew; her sister was the only one she could trust, as much as she hated the control, but she needed room to _breathe_. She needed not to be confined in castle walls. There had been too much of that during her life up to this point and she would be the one to take back control.  


Setting her jaw, Morgana flung open the door and stepped out.  


Morgause emerged from the shadows. ‘Where are you going?’  


‘Out,’ Morgana tersely replied, kicking the door shut and looking straight ahead as she moved forwards. ‘Do not try to follow me. If I am in danger, I will contact you.’  


‘We haven’t had time to—’  


Halting, Morgana looked over her shoulder. ‘There will be time when I return. I just require some time to myself, that is all. And seeing as you didn’t think it necessary to tell me the details of your plan to overthrow Uther, I do not think it is necessary for me to tell you the details of my plan. I know where to find you.’  


With that, she abandoned her sister and navigated her way to the stables. The skies were clear, and the lack of clouds added a bite to the air that caused Morgana’s skin to stir. It wasn’t the only thing stirring. Resisting the intense urge to burn down the forest, she threw a saddle on the nearest horse and mounted, riding out of the castle. Allowing her body to be manipulated by the movements of her steed – that was one being she didn’t mind submitting to – Morgana kept her hands firmly on the reins as she absorbed the scenery. She tried to regulate her breathing to the rhythm of the faint birdsong as she passed through clusters of the creatures and, gradually, the pyromania within her ebbed away like the last dregs of daylight.  


The land was recognisable – why Morgause had decided that they should remain in the kingdom of Camelot, Morgana was none the wiser, though she doubted she would ever find out – and Morgana could trace a path with her mind to a haven she knew well from childhood. For the most part, the places she passed were unchanged and she hesitated by a small waterfall, hauling the horse away from the stream. As the sunlight pierced the surface in ripples, Morgana turned her face away and pushed back memories of splashing about in it with her father. Her screams of delight as he had brought down one massive, booted foot and doused her with water still seemed to ricochet off the trees surrounding her. Digging her heels into her horse, she moved on with a stony expression.  


Her ankles brushed against desperate ferns as she moved deeper into the forest, the foliage concealing her from the outside world. It had been years since she had been able to quietly ride out alone. If knights hadn’t accompanied her then Gwen had and, as much as she loved having Gwen near her, it was a relief not to have the pressure of maintaining a conversation weighing on her mind. This was an isolation, a separation, that she had chosen herself, not been forcibly subjected to through laws of the land. Uther had unwittingly ostracised her, his own ward, but now she was taking a step back from the world of her own accord. Morgana wanted something unblemished by Camelot’s cruel touch, and someone who had never once tried to exert control over her. She wanted to escape for a little while before succumbing to Morgause and her schemes again, or before she was dragged back.  


And escape qualified as riding straight into a hunt, it seemed.  


As several dogs and numerous beaters shot across her path, Morgana drew back her horse and quietly lingered by a large tree. She remained still as a figure in pale gold cantered into view, crossbow in hand, and Morgana would recognise that posture anywhere. It had been the subject of merciless teasing for its tautness in their adolescence and she suppressed a smile. Mithian turned her head at the crunch of leaves under the hooves of Morgana’s horse, and she was as beautiful as she had ever been.  


Catching sight of Morgana, Mithian eagerly dismounted and handed the reins and crossbow to a servant, striding over. ‘Lady Morgana!’  


Morgana followed suit, tying the reins of her horse around a nearby branch. ‘Princess Mithian, what a pleasant coincidence.’  


They embraced, Morgana taking the opportunity to subtly bury her face in the princess’s hair. It had the same scent as it had always done – honeysuckle and pine – and threatened to obscure Morgana’s face entirely, which was something she would not have minded. Pulling away, Mithian beamed as she clasped Morgana’s hands still, drinking in her entire being.  


‘What on earth are you doing here?’  


‘I requested time away from the court. I’ve been in Camelot so long that I felt that my roots were eluding me.’ She smiled, the corners of her mouth silently pleading for understanding. ‘And I couldn’t let that happen.’  


Mithian’s own smile was sly. ‘Uther must be generous indeed to let you roam unaccompanied.’  


‘Uther has no idea how generous he is being. And you know I can take care of myself.’  


‘That I do,’ the princess concurred, turning her head to check on the hunting party. ‘Well. I suppose we could leave it there for today. The deer will not be going anywhere, I imagine. Where is it that you are staying, my Lady?’  


Morgana hesitated. ‘Nowhere of great significance. Some of Uther’s land on the outskirts of the kingdom.’  


‘If it’s nowhere of great significance, will you dine with us tonight, my Lady?’  


‘It would be an honour, princess,’ she smiled, moving to mount her horse again.  


Mithian did the same and waited for Morgana to trot over to her, continuing side by side. It had been years since they had last been in each other’s company, and Morgana had neglected the chain of letters she sent to Nemeth each month for the past six: not that Mithian would approach the topic. There was a fragility around Morgana’s eyes that the princess had noticed as soon as she had been in close enough proximity to her. She had felt steady beneath her hands, but then Morgana had always been too proud to express her struggles through her body.  


Sensing Mithian’s gaze, Morgana turned her face and gave another smile. Mithian hadn’t been corrupted by Camelot. Perhaps, with her, Morgana could reverse some of her own corruption. Or at least have a break from it for a while. She brought her horse as close to Mithian’s as she dared, their flanks colliding every now and then, as she moved her gaze ahead again. She could still see the princess in her peripheral vision and bit back a smirk at Mithian not being able to take her eyes off her. Morgana knew she had always seemed somewhat of a peacock when that was the expression she was aiming for; it had been better to embrace her role at court as if it was of her own free will, rather than have it forced upon her regardless. But she had to brighten things up somehow.  


They rode in silence, recognising that there would be time enough to talk over dinner, and Morgana was unable to help herself from stealing glances towards Mithian as a way to supplement the deprivation of conversation. The Mithian at ten years old was still present in the delicate shadows of her face when Morgana caught her eye and the smile was the same. It was the smile that had appeared time and time again when she was overtaken by Morgana on horseback, or had a glove triumphantly dropped over it when higher footholds had been reached. Mithian had never been resentful – at least, not to Morgana's face – of Morgana for rigorously beating her so many times, which was something Morgana could appreciate at that point in time. She had enough resentment to last them both a lifetime.  


In some ways, Gwen had always reminded her of Mithian, or Mithian of Gwen; her feelings towards both of them were inexplicably intertwined that she had no idea where one ended and the other began. They had both always been so kind to her and never once tried to use her to achieve their own ends. Tucking her hair behind her ear, Morgana caught the princess’s eye as she glanced over and flushed furiously. Clearly she was not as good at gauging when someone was not looking at her as she had thought. Passing it off as a mere stumble in her wonder at the landscape, Morgana’s eyes returned to the path before her.  


The silence was prompting her thoughts to stir and recollections of recent events wearily returned to her in fragments as the grip on the reins tightened. Flashes of the knights, of Merlin and Arthur on the verge of passing out, of bodies littered across the citadel, flickered in her mind before it settled on the image – or rather the sensation – of quietly choking on poison. Morgana could still feel it clawing at her throat like a desperate animal and she tried to clear it as discreetly as she could, but Mithian had always been too attentive to have anything escape her notice.  


‘Are you alright?’  


Morgana turned her head. ‘Quite alright, thank you, I just had something in my throat. A fly probably, nothing more.’  


Taking one hand off the reins, Mithian reached down and retrieved a waterskin. Readjusting her position, she stretched across the gulf between their horses to offer it to Morgana. ‘Here. This might help.’  


Sensing the agitation, Morgana’s horse stumbled to the side and she forced herself to smile at Mithian and regain control of her steed. ‘Thank you, but I’m alright. You’ve been hunting; you need it more than I do.’  


Mithian’s gaze was soft, as Merlin’s had been so many times. ‘Are you sure?’  


‘Quite sure, thank you.’  


Returning the waterskin to its pouch, Mithian straightened. ‘Do you know how long you have before you are returning to Camelot?’  


‘A month, perhaps, maybe more. Why do you ask?’  


‘For purely selfish reasons, I confess,’ Mithian said. ‘My father has been caught up in kingdom matters over the past few weeks and is the type of man to never give himself any respite, so between council meetings I have been quite neglected.’  


This time Morgana’s smile was genuine. ‘I know the feeling. My maid, Guinevere, usually accompanies me everywhere, and I have been quite alone without her.’  


Mithian tilted her head. ‘She didn’t come with you?’  


‘No, no. She’s never been away from Camelot for more than a few days and I didn’t wish to rip her from her home and sentence her to a month of my potential fragility in an unknown place.’  


Had it been anyone else, Morgana would never have indicated that she had the potential to crumble in a way that was not anger. But she and Mithian had held each other and committed the other’s face to watery memory the day before Morgana had been taken to the citadel. If Morgana closed her eyes then perhaps she could drown out recent events with the recollection of Mithian’s arms around her body. There was a gentle touch on her arm and, surprised by her own imaginative abilities, Morgana opened her eyes.  


Mithian had taken hold of Morgana’s reins as well, her arm brushing against Morgana’s in the process. ‘You have to have your eyes open to ride, my Lady. We’re almost there, though.’  


‘I know,’ Morgana smiled. ‘I remember the way.’  


They passed through a final copse of trees and emerged into the threshold of Nemeth. It was exactly as Morgana recalled, with its strong walls and glittering roofs, grinning in the sunlight as if the city itself was welcoming her. She glanced across at Mithian and caught the elation that shaped the princess’s face. One day it would all be hers and she would be a great ruler, that Morgana was certain of. Mithian had a kind heart and would rule fairly, showing compassion towards her subjects. Unlike certain monarchs that Morgana knew. As they crossed over the bridge and into an inner courtyard, Morgana jumped off her horse in unison with the princess and handed over the reins, dusting off her legs.  


Waiting as Mithian gave various instructions to the hunting party, Morgana loosened her hair and spun in a slow circle, absorbing the citadel. There were the battlements that she had sat on when her father had told her it was time to leave and the roof near it still seemed to have a chunk missing, if she squinted, from where she and Mithian had hurled stones at extraordinarily large crows. In some ways, her childhood was more present in Nemeth than it ever had been at her home. It had only been the pleasant parts that resided here, leaving the place unblemished in her mind. At her father’s, there had always been arguments and weighty expectations and the threat of combat, but in Nemeth she had been able to simply enjoy the company of someone else her age.  


The wind carried the strong medicinal scent of cinnamon to Morgana and she found herself leaning against Mithian, who had since planted herself behind her, as she took it all in. Then she realised just how intimate she was being and took a respectful step forwards, turning around so the sun was in her eyes and bathing Mithian in an ethereal glow. Removing her gloves, the princess smiled at her and raised an eyebrow as a method of speech. Morgana, who knew every subtle syllable of Mithian’s features like an oath etched in her heart, nodded in return.

They were on a walking trail of the places they had haunted as children, with Mithian keeping up a steady flow of reminiscences. Morgana, not trusting herself to speak without letting loose revelations she’d rather not share, laughed at appropriate intervals, choosing to remember instead by grazing her hand along everything they came across. She could focus on the cadence of Mithian’s voice and let everything else melt away.

The sun seemed stronger than it ever had in Camelot, with the light refracting from the domed hats of the citadel and bouncing in every direction like a giddy leaf, and Morgana had to keep her gaze low to prevent herself from constantly squinting. On the outskirts of the town was a small woodland that Mithian led her to, daring to remove her shoes to dangle her feet in a delicate stream that passed through the trees. It ran along to a river that dripped through to Camelot and Mithian was strengthening the roots of Nemeth in the land as she dragged her toes through the water, sending ripples across the bubbling surface.  


Morgana sat on a nearby rock with one knee drawn to her chest, watching the princess silently. Through the trees, the light was filtered through like snatches of exposed skin in battle and it caught all the best parts of Mithian, who had since ceased speaking and was watching her own smooth movements. The image was slightly distorted and gave the submerged limbs an otherworldly effect, enhanced by the lazy wave of the hem of her dress as it slipped into the water. She was sketched in sunlight and shadows and she had never looked so beautiful to Morgana than she did at that precise moment.  


‘Has Uther mentioned anything about marrying you off yet?’ asked Mithian, penetrating the peace like a stone breaking up the water’s serene surface.  


Morgana ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Not that I’m aware of, no. Has your father?’  


‘He’s been dropping hints,’ Mithian replied, glancing over her shoulder to meet Morgana’s eye. ‘I wish that we didn’t have to go straight to the extreme of marriage.’  


‘There’s courting.’  


Mithian scoffed. ‘Barely. It’s ridiculous; how am I meant to know what to do when married when I don’t even know how to kiss?’  


‘I expect that your betrothed will know how to do that. All you have to do is follow his lead,’ Morgana remarked, loosely braiding her hair to give her hands something to do.  


Quirking an eyebrow, Mithian hauled one foot from the water to shift her body towards Morgana. ‘And what if I can’t even do that?’  


Lowering her hands, Morgana regarded her silently for several moments before she stood up. ‘Would you like me to show you?’  


At Mithian’s sharp inclination of her head, Morgana abandoned her perch on the rock and settled beside the princess on the flat stone she was sitting on. Gently, Morgana pushed up Mithian’s chin and tilted her own head as she moved in closer. Her eyes instinctively closed and she found Mithian’s mouth by the image imprinted in her mind. It was soft to the touch, stained by the residue of the last blackberries of the year, and it surrendered completely to Morgana’s.  


To steady herself, Morgana planted one hand on Mithian’s knee and tried not to think too much about the last mouth she had kissed in the sternum of the woods. She was slightly taken aback when Mithian put a hand on her shoulder, thumb following the path of Morgana’s collarbone, to bring them closer together. Morgana allowed herself to linger for several more seconds before delicately extracting herself from the embrace.  


‘Hopefully that sheds a little more light on the process,’ she finally said, dropping her gaze.  


Her hand was still on Mithian’s knee and the joint fitted so well into the curve of her palm that she couldn’t bring herself to remove it without feeling like she was removing a part of herself. Mithian hadn’t taken away her own hand.  


‘It does, thank you. Have you had much experience?’  


‘Not much. Why, did it show?’  


Mithian did then abandon Morgana’s shoulder to the cold breeze as she drew back the hand that had been acting as a blanket. ‘On the contrary. It rather seemed like you knew very well what you were doing.’ She saved Morgana the trouble of removing her hand by standing up to put her shoes back on. ‘We had better be getting back. As wonderful as I think you look, I fear that my father won’t think that your attire is appropriate for dinner. There should be something of mine that will fit you.’  


Morgana rose with a smile. ‘Thank you.’  


She waited for Mithian to secure her shoes before walking by her side. The kiss had been a simple transaction of information, that was all, and Morgana was grateful that it had taken her mind off everything else. Everything that was immediately returning through the floodgates she’d just opened. Her jaw clenched in the effort not to betray the turn her thoughts had taken to Mithian, but the princess was absorbed in her surroundings and, having exhausted herself earlier with talking, was not paying much attention to Morgana.  


In fact, Mithian didn’t direct a single word towards her guest until they were about to enter the dining hall. A dress had been silently handed to Morgana, who had been shown to guest chambers near to the princess, and she had declined the offer of a servant to help her change. Mithian had been waiting outside the door to lead her down, fiddling with something in her hands, and drew her to the side as they approached a staircase.  


‘I thought you could wear this,’ she said, dropping a necklace into Morgana’s hands. ‘It was my mother’s, and you have a similar complexion to her, so it would suit you. And we need something to draw the eyes away from those collarbones of yours,’ she added with a mischievous smirk.  


Morgana felt the heat rise in her cheeks and opened out the necklace to examine it. It was silver and scattered with deep red stones at regular intervals, with a slightly larger stone dropping down from the centre. In the light from the torches, it flickered like cautious flames, and she smiled at Mithian. ‘Do you think you could put it on for me?’  


Their fingers brushed as the necklace was exchanged, and Morgana lifted the hair off her neck. Mithian’s fingers were warm against her and painfully delicate, as if she were handling a butterfly or some such creature, instead of fastening a piece of jewellery around Morgana’s throat. Taking note of the weight that dropped onto her skin as the fastening was secured, Morgana let her hair drop in response, accidentally releasing it too early and trapping the princess’s fingers beneath the web.  


Mithian disentangled her digits from the net with a soft smile and began to walk again, eyes illuminated with an expression that Morgana hadn’t seen directed at her for a long time. ‘It suits you perfectly,’ she quietly remarked, her voice dropping even lower at her next comment. ‘You always were the most beautiful person in the room.’  


‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Morgana said. ‘I can think of a few others who surpass me.’   


Sparing another smile, Mithian discreetly passed her fingers over Morgana’s knuckles as she pushed open the door and stepped through. Morgana closely followed behind, settling in a seat and smiling at Rodor, and focused all her attention on the king’s enquiries about her health, rather than on her sister’s attempts to push into her mind. Mithian was sat opposite her, murmuring quiet words to a servant, and the guest stole glances towards her every now and then to draw strength from the curve of her lips. Any answers about Camelot or why she had left Morgana kept brief yet courteous and was so caught up in remaining graceful but evasive that she didn’t register a rather large obstacle until it was set in front of her.  


Wine was poured into a goblet on her left without her affirmation and a plate gently placed before her. Morgana stared before carefully raising her gaze to discern the actions of her hosts. Rodor was heartily attacking his food and Mithian was taking a sip from her goblet with mirthful eyes glancing over the rim, but that meant nothing. Merlin himself had drunk from – or pretended to drink from – the waterskin before handing it to Morgana. She clenched her fist around the cutlery. There she went thinking about everything she’d come to Nemeth to escape from again.   


Pushing down the growing roots of panic, Morgana speared a piece of meat and brought it to her mouth, ignoring her shaking hand. When it touched her lips, it left a searing pain at the touch and she put her other hand in front of her face, shielding her reaction. Words bubbled to the surface and instinctively she recited them, without taking a moment to consider what they might be, holding back a noise of surprise as the meat on her fork completely vanished. She feigned chewing motions and didn’t react to Mithian’s curious look from across the table, resolving to keep her eyes lowered for the remainder of the evening. It was going to be a long few hours.

* * *

Morgana glanced up towards the battlements and caught sight of the skittish pale blue Mithian had been wearing that morning. She suppressed a smile. The princess was supposed to be in a council meeting. She turned her face back towards her opponent and dodged the weapon that came her way, braid flying over her shoulder. Ever now and then her gaze flickered to the figure elevated seemingly amongst the clouds, where Morgana would happily sketch her in stars if she could. Relief was drawn from every glimpse; Morgana was tethered to her innocent past by the mere sight of her childhood companion. She didn’t have to dwell on Merlin here, or Camelot, and there would be time to choose her revenge when she returned to Morgause.  


Her sword lowered. Unless she didn’t return.  


Her sleeve split, the blade scratching against her skin, and she automatically retaliated, throwing back her opponent before falling to the ground herself. There was a marked distinction between subtly making food disappear and throwing a man ten feet in the air without laying a hand on him, and Morgana had just exposed her magic to the crown princess of Nemeth. Of course, Nemeth wasn’t Camelot, but Morgana knew that most of the kingdoms had been strongly influenced by Camelot’s stance on magic over the years. With half a mind to flee to the woods and never return, Morgana shakily stood and moved to check on the knight before another strode towards her and very forcefully gripped her arm.  


‘I think you’ve done enough damage for the moment,’ he sharply told her.  


Morgana wrenched her arm from his grip. She wasn’t one to attack one of the knights of the realm when their princess was standing in plain view, but the sword in her hand was whispering very persuasive words of encouragement to her tightening grip. Here was yet another name to add to the list of people who thought she was a monster. Perhaps she should prove him right.  


Aware of Mithian’s presence, though, she satisfied herself with a glare in his direction and angrily sheathed her sword. ‘Please be so kind as to send him my sincerest apologies. He caught me off-guard and I was somewhat distracted, I did not mean to have such a violent reaction.’  


Then she turned on her heel and stalked off in the direction of the city walls. She could hear Mithian calling her name behind her but Morgana ignored her, hastening her pace as the gates came into sight. It had been ridiculous to think that she would ever be able to escape herself, able to escape the fear in people’s eyes when she revealed that she had magic, able to escape the whispers in her head that were now becoming roars. Morgana had been forced to conceal her magic from almost everyone and forced to flee the home that had been hers for almost a decade and for what? She was still an outcast. She always would be. One of two people she had confided in had tried to poison her, her sister was using her as a piece in her game, and Morgana was giving up the fight against becoming everything she had feared. At least in Morgause’s game she had a place, an active role. Away from Camelot she was merely a weapon with no tether – and in Camelot she was nothing but an ornament that was dangerously close to shattering from the pressure.  


Having passed through the gates, Morgana unsheathed her sword and hurled it into the trunk of a tree with a small scream of frustration. Perhaps she could return to Camelot and try to get Arthur on side. He’d led a persecution campaign on his father’s behalf, but he was still so young and impressionable and, for all their bickering, they were close. And Uther had mistreated them both over the years; as much as Arthur was loyal to him, he would surely realise that the level of threat that meant Uther’s own ward was fearing for her life meant something had to be done?  


Removing the sword from the tree, she stabbed it into another.  


‘I would rather that you didn’t damage my land,’ came an amused voice.  


Morgana turned around, gaze sweeping across the figure, and she pulled the sword out again. ‘It’s not yours yet, is it?’  


Mithian raised an eyebrow and set her mouth in a thin line in response. ‘I understand that you’re upset, but what has that tree ever done to you?’  


‘It gets to live its life free from threat.’ Even as the words came out of her mouth, Morgana regretted them. ‘I don’t know. It was just there.’  


‘One day it will probably be cut down,’ mused Mithian, touching the bark as she approached. ‘And then that’s everything vanquished. No more life for that tree. Now, give me your arm.’   


Thrusting her sword in the grass, Morgana reluctantly held out her arm and Mithian’s hands jumped to the wound immediately, pulling away the material to examine it. With a small hum, the princess let go and bent down to tear a strip from her underskirts. When she straightened, she wrapped it tightly around Morgana’s arm several times and knotted it, the ends flitting in the breeze like the wings of a butterfly. As Morgana then moved to continue further into the woods, Mithian caught her wrist in her hand and gently shook her head.  


‘You think that I’m going to let you indulge in a self-destructive rampage? I think not. Besides, if you leave then I’ll have to return to that council meeting, and that really is _not_ worth my time.’  


‘What was it about?’  


Mithian pulled a face. ‘Potential suitors.’  


‘In that case, I’ll stay just to save you from that,’ Morgana said, a laugh almost breaking through her thoughts.  


Flashing her a grateful smile, Mithian hoisted the sword from the grass and turned it over in her hands. ‘So. Dare I ask about you now having magic?’  


Morgana shrugged, settling on a log. ‘There’s not much to tell. I woke up from a nightmare and almost set the castle on fire. And thus began the concealment of my identity.’  


‘I would have thought it would be difficult to conceal arson.’  


‘Well, yes, that couldn’t be concealed. But the source – that is, to say, me – was covered up.’ Morgana picked at the strip on her arm. ‘I’ve only told two people in Camelot and neither of them have been able to give me any answers. I have no idea why I suddenly started to show magical abilities or where they came from. And Uther didn’t grant me this trip. I fled Camelot.’  


Mithian sat down on a tree stump opposite and rested her chin delicately on the hands covering the hilt of the sword. ‘I guessed as much. Did Uther discover your magic?’  


‘Not quite. It’s complicated.’  


Instantly rising, Mithian perched beside Morgana on the log, her fingers absent-mindedly brushing the dark hair that had come loose away from Morgana’s face. ‘I’m good with complicated matters. You can tell me.’  


Morgana met her eyes cautiously. ‘It’s difficult to explain. I can barely comprehend most of it myself.’  


‘Then tell me what you can explain.’  


Instinctively resting her head on Mithian’s shoulder, Morgana exhaled. ‘I woke up one night and had magic, as I’ve said.’  


Nodding slowly, Mithian’s hand progressed down Morgana’s neck. ‘Then what?’  


‘Then I knew that Uther would have me executed if he found out, ward or no ward. And there’s only so long you can walk around with an axe over your head.’  


‘I can’t disagree with you there. Not after what happened to your mother.’  


Lifting her head, Morgana frowned. ‘My mother? What happened to my mother?’  


‘You didn’t—Your father never told you?’  


Morgana’s back was now taut, her entire face strained. ‘Told me what? Mithian, what do you mean?’  


‘Your mother had magic. She was killed for it. On Uther’s orders.’   


Trying and failing to compose herself, Morgana stood up and began to wildly pace between two trees. It was odd that Morgause had never mentioned it: perhaps she had thought that her little sister would be unable to handle it. Morgana’s jaw set. She was not a child; she did not need to be protected. And here was Mithian, laying out the truth in all its naked brutality, doing more to help Morgana understand herself than Morgause ever had. If her mother had magic, then that explained where she got it from, but not why it had appeared almost twenty years after her birth.  


Morgana’s hands flew to her head, where they balanced as if trying to physically contain her thoughts, and she continued to pace, wondering what precise game Morgause was playing. ‘Alright, I can’t—I can’t process this right now,’ she finally said, having circled back to the same thoughts over and over again.  


Mithian, sword still in hand, stood up. ‘Do you want distracting?’  


‘Actually,’ Morgana slowly replied, lowering her hands, ‘yes.’  


Catching her fingertips, Mithian drew her closer to her. Their eyes directly met, there being barely an inch between their height, and Morgana felt her gaze drop to Mithian’s lips. They hadn’t spoken about the kiss but it, amongst other things, had kept Morgana awake for half the night. It had been a solace to lose herself in someone else for a few short minutes – losing herself had been the main object of leaving Morgause, after all – and the close proximity of Mithian’s mouth was almost inviting her to let herself fall away.  


‘It’s working, isn’t it?’  


Morgana blinked, eyes shooting back up to meet Mithian’s. ‘What?’  


‘You were distracted by me just then.’  


‘Your lips, more precisely, but yes.’ Morgana paused before deciding to throw caution to the wind. ‘When we were children, nothing mattered except you. On those sunny afternoons in this city, you were my entire world. And yesterday, by the stream, you were my entire world again. You’re unblemished by Camelot, by Uther, by anything.’  


‘And you’re unblemished by Nemeth,’ Mithian whispered, dropping the sword on the ground. ‘You’re a tether to simpler times.’  


‘And you would not be taking advantage of me if we kissed again.’  


‘That came out of nowhere, but alright. We’ll both be married off at some point, might as well have some fun, don’t you think?’  


Morgana felt Mithian’s hands before she saw them, creeping up her neck to match the lines of Morgana’s jaw with her fingers. When Morgana closed her eyes, the sunlight on Mithian’s face remained dappled against her eyelids and her hand found the princess’s waist. All she needed to do was focus on the shape of Mithian’s mouth. She didn’t need to think about Morgause, she didn’t need to think about her mother, she didn’t need to think about her ever so gradual transformation into a monster that everyone seemed to perceive her as. Of course, if she wanted to mull over something obsessively in her mind then she could analyse the implications of Mithian’s idea of fun.  


Or she could move her other hand to Mithian’s waist.  


She moved her other hand to Mithian’s waist. It gave a little at the touch, as if all the tension holding it up had been vanquished by the whisper of Morgana’s fingertips, and leaned into her palms. Morgana held her with the same care that she’d use when holding a sword: admiration of the beauty, intermingled with awe at just how much damage it could cause. But Mithian wasn’t a weapon. Nor was she an ornament to be delicately handled. She was Mithian, and Morgana wanted nothing more than to drown herself in the princess’s very essence.  


As her hand slipped from the waist to the thigh, Mithian firmly covered it and pulled away. ‘If it’s alright with you, I’d rather we didn’t go there.’ Her eyes caught Morgana’s to scan her face for a reaction. ‘I thought I wanted it, that I was supposed to want it, but I—I don’t think I do.’  


Morgana retracted her hand and returned it to the alcove of Mithian’s waist. ‘Of course. If it makes you uncomfortable then of course we don’t have to do it.’  


Although the situation hadn’t been identical, growing up with Uther Pendragon as a guardian meant that Morgana was all too familiar with being forced into things that made her uncomfortable. She’d be damned before she did that to Mithian. Catching Mithian’s hand as it found hers, she traced the veins in the princess’s wrist, fumbling for words that had been stolen by another tongue.  


‘You can kiss me again, it’s alright,’ Mithian quietly said. ‘I don’t feel uncomfortable doing that.’  


Morgana kept her gaze fixed on Mithian’s wrist. ‘You’re sure?’  


In response, Mithian gently pressed a kiss to Morgana’s jaw. ‘Quite sure. Now, if we’re done here for the moment, we should probably return to the city.’ A smirk flickered on the lips that Morgana had marked only minutes before. ‘We wouldn’t want anyone thinking that we’d eloped, now, would we?’  


Bending down to retrieve her sword but keeping hold of Mithian’s hand as her grip slid from wrist to palm, Morgana failed to keep in a smirk of her own. ‘No, we couldn’t have that.’ They headed in the direction of the city walls, hand in hand, and Morgana pushed aside the recollection of words similar to those she was about to utter being spoken on the brink of another civilisation. ‘Thank you. For understanding me.’  


Mithian fixed her with a steady look. ‘And thank _you_ for understanding me. Nemeth’s stance on magic is not as strong as Camelot’s. If you want to remain here and throw some of my suitors ten feet in the air for me, by all means go ahead.’  


‘And I don’t need sex to be close to you,’ Morgana murmured.   


Smiling, Mithian drew her through the city walls and led her along the invisible path to her chambers. At the threshold, Morgana hesitated and Mithian’s fingers slid through her hand. The last of the sunlight was hiding in the heavy folds of the curtains, setting the parts that it touched alight and drawing a warm film of gold over the rest of the room. There were clothes carefully folded over the backs of chairs and parchment scattered across the desk, with seemingly every surface splattered with ink. That explained all the smudges on letters from Mithian that Morgana had received over the years. Despite visiting numerous times, Morgana had never once been in Mithian’s chambers. Nervously, she put one foot on the other side of the door, as if expecting to be denied entry and hurled backwards by some invisible force and, finding that wasn’t the case, she placed her whole body inside the room.  


Mithian had disappeared behind a screen and, closing the door to prevent a draught, Morgana perched on the bed, not quite sure what they – she and Mithian, not the furniture – were doing there. Although the furniture was in a very odd place. The screen was in front of the window and, had the glass panels not been stained, Mithian would have effectively been flashing the courtyard below, and the bed was slightly off-centre. In fact, the whole room had a haphazard feel to it; the table and the desk were at inharmonious angles to one another, the door to the wardrobe was slightly ajar, and there was a book on a chair dangerously close to the fire. Morgana smothered a smile. It was all very Mithian.   


Unable to remain seated when there was so much to discreetly explore, Morgana moved over to the fireplace to pull the chair a little further away for the sake of the leaves of the book. Her fingers traced the title and she cast a glance over her shoulder. There was so much that Mithian didn’t know – or perhaps she did, and just wasn’t letting on – but Morgana was not about to unload another wave of secrets on the princess. There would be time for that, if she decided to stay.  


She fell against the fireplace. Uther had murdered her mother and was responsible for the death of her father, and he deserved to pay the price, but she was just so exhausted. She could spare a few weeks, at least, in the warmth of Mithian’s arms to replenish her stores of strength. Then she would face Morgause and whatever her sister had in store for her. But she was of no use to anyone when her thoughts were so tumultuous.

Turning her head as Mithian stepped out from behind the screen, she smiled at her host, who was looking at her with a frown. ‘What? What is it?’ Morgana’s hand jumped to her face. ‘Have I got something on my face?’  


Mithian deliberately took a step closer, her eyes now flitting across Morgana’s frame. ‘You were making your food disappear last night.’  


Morgana avoided Mithian’s eyes. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’  


‘In fact, you haven’t eaten anything since arriving here, Morgana, and I don’t think I’ve seen you drink anything that’s been given to you. I’m _worried_ about you. What’s going on?’  


Morgana drew a breath to compose herself, instantly regretting the action as her legs threatened to give way and she gripped the back of the chair. She hadn’t realised just how much she had been relying on adrenaline until Mithian’s remark had released her from the facade. ‘Someone at Camelot was poisoned by someone they considered a friend. It’s been harder than I thought to bounce back from witnessing that.’  


‘Is that partially why you left? Because you were concerned about your own safety? I can guarantee that Uther has had them executed by now, Morgana.’ The smile on Mithian’s face was somewhat bitter. ‘You can trust me.’  


‘Saying that doesn’t instantly mean that I can feel secure that you do. It’s not that simple.’  


‘Then I prove it to you.’ Mithian sat at her desk and picked up her quill. ‘I shall write a note to my father to inform him that the two of us will be dining in private tonight. We’ll share whatever is prepared. And if you would like to see it being prepared to put your mind more at ease, then we can do that. But you need to eat.’   


‘Dinner is only a few hours away; I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone—’  


Mithian sharply regarded her over her quill. ‘It’s more of an inconvenience if you eat nothing.’  


Morgana softly closed her mouth and sat on the bed. Like Mithian’s waist, it immediately gave at her touch and she rested her head against the bedpost, quietly watching the princess. The latter eventually stood, blowing on the ink, and informed her guest that she’d be going down to the kitchens to tell them what was happening. Registering Morgana’s nod, Mithian started towards the door before doubling back and pressing a kiss to Morgana’s forehead. The warmth lingered long after she’d left the room and Morgana turned her attention to the firelight in the endeavour of retaining the mark from the lips that so softly articulated her name.  


Camelot seemed now like a fever dream; she had become so absorbed by Mithian that she could only recollect snatched glimpses of the people and the place she’d left behind. It didn’t help that most of them had been asleep the last time she’d seen them. It would have been nice to have had some warning; she had been looking out of her window, idly talking to Gwen, when people in the courtyard had started to keel over. When, frantically, she’d turned around to alert Gwen, the servant had fallen to the ground as well. Morgana had checked to see if she was still breathing and that she wasn’t injured, and then had sprinted through the rest of the castle. She hadn’t had the strength to lift Gwen onto the bed.  


Gwen might not have been part of that fever dream fragmentation, but everything else definitely was.   


Thoughts interrupted by the door opening, Morgana looked up to see Mithian pushing through with a jug in her hand, followed by two servants carrying food and crockery. Morgana straightened her back before standing up completely and wishing that she’d changed her clothes. As the trio set down everything on the table – Mithian having cleared a space with one hand – Morgana silently watched, keeping hold of her tongue until she and Mithian were left alone.  


Mithian, catching sight of the question lingering in her eyes, flashed her a smile. ‘Change of plan. It was less hassle to put together something quick now than involve us in what they had intended to serve.’  


‘Did they, by any chance, protest that putting something quick together was not of a high enough standard for a princess?’  


‘They did,’ concurred Mithian, taking a seat and separating the plates.  


Cautiously, Morgana sat beside her. ‘And did you, by any chance, insist that it was of a perfectly high enough standard?’  


‘I did. Now, what would you like?’  


Running her fingertips along the engraving on the plate’s rim, Morgana’s gaze skittered across everything on the table. ‘I don’t...I don’t know.’  


Mithian surveyed her for several moments before reaching for the jug. ‘I thought it was best to get water—’ Registering Morgana’s flinch, Mithian offered her a smile of reassurance and reached for her hand as soon as she’d filled her goblet. ‘—seeing as wine would rather quickly intoxicate you on such an empty stomach. I’ll drink some of it first—’  


‘I thought the poisoner drank the water first, but they had just feigned it,’ Morgana quietly interrupted.  


‘In that case,’ Mithian said, pulling Morgana’s hand into her own and resting it on her throat, ‘you can feel me swallow.’  


As she spoke, Morgana could feel the bouncing vibrations of her voice dance along her fingertips and she was so distracted that she almost didn’t feel the subtle movement of Mithian swallowing. But the movement was different to when she had been speaking and Morgana, having registered it, let her hand drop as she watched Mithian intently. A minute passed and Mithian still was serene. Morgana gave a sharp nod of her head and the princess pushed the goblet towards her. Cupping it with both hands, Morgana drained the entire thing and tentatively reached for a hunk of bread.   


Taking note of Mithian’s warning to go slowly, she ducked her head and kept her fingers intertwined with the woman beside her, both of them navigating their food with just the one hand. They said nothing: Morgana was too preoccupied with filling her stomach to make conversation, save for the waves of gratitude in the gaze that met Mithian’s, and Mithian was perfectly happy to watch Morgana finally take care of herself.  


Talk came after dinner, with the pair of them falling in bed together and drawing shapes on limbs as they exchanged words that they had bitten back for years. The world outside the door was brutally ordered and they had their regimented places, but in the safety of Mithian’s chambers they could build a kingdom just for the two of them. Morgana continued to talk of anything but Camelot as Mithian changed into her nightclothes behind the screen, hushing as she stepped out.  


In the firelight, her exposed muscles rippled beneath the thin sleeves as she let her hair loose, moving towards the bed. Morgana had taken the opportunity to also change, dropping a wrap from a chair around herself when Mithian had been behind the screen, and they now sat opposite one another on the bed. Morgana’s hand delicately buried itself in Mithian’s hair, drawing a strand between her fingers, and the princess caught her wrist.  


‘You can stay in here tonight, if you like,’ she whispered.  


‘Are you su—’  


‘I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t alright with it. I trust you, Morgana. I know that I won’t wake up in the middle of the night to find that your hand is somewhere I don’t want it to be.’   


Seeking permission with her eyes, Morgana leaned in to gently kiss her. Mithian fell into her palms as she had fallen, quite suddenly, into her life again, and Morgana savoured the soft weight of her. As they pulled one another down, the guest slotted into the curves of the princess like they were two halves of destiny being knitted meticulously back together. Pulling away from Mithian like ivy trying to prise itself from stone, Morgana directed her gaze towards the fire and it extinguished itself without protest.  


Mithian gave her one last smile for the night, hand clutching Morgana’s as she drifted off to sleep. Morgana watched the moonlight fall on her face and resisted the urge to kiss every pore it stroked. She instead waited until Mithian’s breathing deepened and extracted her hand, touching the bracelet on her wrist as she turned over onto her back. She certainly had fewer nightmares than she used to, but she was still wary of falling asleep in the same bed as Mithian. Sometimes the visions still pierced through her state of unconsciousness and the last thing she wanted to do was wake Mithian up by accidentally punching her in her beautiful mouth. She closed her eyes – to think more clearly, not to sleep – and quietly drew breath.  


She could feel Morgause at the threshold of her thoughts, gently testing the waters of her mind, and Morgana carefully raised her hands to her head. She was so tired of fighting. She’d thought that staying with Mithian would mean that she could have room to breathe, but the longer she stayed then the more Morgause would worry. And when Morgause worried, she always acted first and talked later. She’d come storming into Nemeth and demand to see Morgana and provoke all sorts of difficult questions. As strategic as she was when it came to regicide, she abandoned all logic when it came to Morgana. She’d proved that after the poisoning.  


But Morgana was not a child; she could command her own destiny, perhaps even with Mithian: until the princess’s eventual betrothal, at least. She didn’t have to return to Morgause every time she murmured her name, even if she was her only living family and the one person she could always trust. Morgana could stay in Mithian’s heart and in her bed. And perhaps she would remain there forever. Or perhaps she would slip away before dawn broke, leaving nothing but the imprint of her body in the sheets and the memory of the past few days as a fading myth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to BlueMotherLion3124 (tumblr: @fluffypotatey) for your tags on Gwen giving Morgana a sword for her birthday, sorry for stealing that idea but it was such a cute concept ^^
> 
> Now go. Go and take a break. Because that was much longer than I intended it to be (sorry).


	4. Mithian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven years on from their whirlwind dalliance, Mithian and Morgana are once again thrown together, but not in the way that Mithian was hoping for. Faced with a completely different person to the figure her mind has thrived on for years, Mithian struggles to reconcile her captor with the woman she once loved.

**Nemeth**

_7 years later_

For all of Mithian’s words, it had never simply been a bit of fun when it came to Morgana. Each letter she had received from Camelot she had stowed away in a box and cherished, locking away each little part of the noblewoman that she was given. King Arthur may have relinquished all claims to Gedref, but Morgana had not yet relinquished her claim to Mithian’s heart. Which was why she had hesitated when Morgana and Odin had attacked. Which was why there was still a part of her mind that kept looking for signs that Morgana was being forced into such actions.  


Mithian had always prided herself on being able to read an individual within a minute of meeting them and, the last time she had seen Morgana, that hadn’t been an issue. Yet now when she looked at her, there were certain passages of Morgana’s body that she could translate, but the text as a whole remained blurry and full of contradictions. There were snatches of the woman she had known, but they were overshadowed by a malice and coldness that she never would have thought Morgana was capable of.  


Yet there they were, in the same woods that they’d crossed paths in so long ago, faces illuminated by the firelight instead of the sunlight. Mithian poked at the fire with a stick and glanced over at her captor. The throne room had been the first time they’d seen each other since Morgana had deserted Mithian on that fateful night so many years ago. Mithian hadn’t been able to string two words together, let alone a sentence, in her direction, save for the language her eyes spat out as they slid across to the woman she had once loved so fervently. The woman she had trusted to lie with her. At least Morgana hadn’t lied to her. She frowned at herself, digging the stick deeper into the fire. Morgana may not have lied to her, but she had ransacked her kingdom and kidnapped her father. And wanted _her_ to lie to the King and Queen of Camelot.  


Not paying attention to her limbs, Mithian caught her hand in the flames and dropped the stick with a yelp as she retracted the now injured hand. Morgana had looked up quietly, her clenched jaw all shadows as she turned her eyes towards the princess, and remained silent, her gaze steadfast. Mithian fiercely stared back, daring her to do anything at all. No words had passed between them without Odin’s presence, and they had all concerned the plan to trap Arthur. And, with Morgana’s apparent determination to remain precisely where she was, it seemed that no further words would pass between them then.  


Reluctantly, Mithian was the one to look away first as she fumbled for a waterskin in the darkness. As she held it in her uninjured hand, she cast a sideways glance towards Morgana again, who had since looked down at the fire. Bitterly, Mithian released the water over the back of her hand, letting out a strangled sigh at the agonised relief that rippled across the skin.  


‘Well that was incredibly stupid.’  


Mithian sharply looked up, eyes narrowing. ‘I’m sorry?’  


Morgana was still looking into the flames. ‘You’ve just wasted your water supply.’  


‘I wouldn’t say that treating an injury is wasting it. And it’s not like we’re short of streams out here.’  


Now Morgana looked up, unfamiliar smirk twisting her lips. ‘You think we’re going to stop to stock up on water? It will take days to reach Camelot if we do that and I have waited long enough for this moment already.’  


‘You say it like it’s a glorious thing. It’s regicide, Morgana, not a cause for celebration.’  


Flinching as her name passed Mithian’s lips, Morgana turned away again and was silent. Mithian hadn’t minded silence with Morgana when they had been younger, but now it weighed heavy like a raised axe and the princess was impatient for it to fall.  


‘Uther’s dead. You can’t kill him twice.’  


‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything,’ Morgana coolly said.  


‘That’s why you’re doing this, isn’t it? To get back at him, a man who lies dead in a tomb in Camelot.’ Mithian let out a short laugh. ‘I pitied you. Because I knew, all of Nemeth knew, how much of ruthless tyrant Uther Pendragon was. But he’s _dead_. Overthrowing Arthur is not going to alter the past in any way at all.’  


‘That’s not why I’m doing it.’  


The talking was taking Mithian’s mind off the pain in her hand. ‘Then, by all means, correct me.’  


‘You now know what it feels like to have your kingdom taken from you.’  


‘It was never yours in the first place. You may have been Uther’s firstborn, but Arthur is a man. And men always take precedent.’  


When Morgana spoke, her words were so quiet that they were almost lost to the merry crackling of the flames. ‘He doesn’t deserve Camelot.’  


Mithian was rarely one to snap violently. The knife strapped to her thigh was for defence rather than confrontation, but the conviction with which Morgana had uttered those four words cast an enchantment on her fingers. In seconds she had withdrawn the knife from beneath her skirts and knocked Morgana onto her back, legs pinned either side of her with the point of the knife digging into her throat.  


‘He deserves it a damned lot more than you do,’ snarled the princess. ‘I know what you did. You murdered your own people during your coronation, the very ceremony where you swear to _protect_ them.’  


She pushed the knife further into Morgana’s skin, unconsciously relaxing her grip in horror as she drew blood. Morgana seized the opportunity to wrestle the knife from Mithian before throwing it into the fire, closing her fingers around her throat. The grip wasn’t tight enough to block Mithian’s airways, but it was enough to keep the princess rooted to the spot, her glare a mixture of terror and fury.  


‘Pull a stunt like that again,’ Morgana softly said, ‘and your father will pay the price.’  


Pushing Mithian away, she dabbed at the blood on her throat before returning her gaze to her prisoner, who was discreetly reaching into the fire. With a violent curse, Morgana’s eyes illuminated as a rope flew around Mithian’s wrist and dragged her hands away from the flames, allowing Morgana to approach it and create a space for her to snatch the weapon. Once she had retreated back to the log she had been sat on, she let Mithian’s hand drop and studied the knife.  


‘Do I need to repeat myself?’  


Mithian’s mouth was in a thin line. ‘No. But that knife belonged to my mother.’ Her eyes slid to the bracelet on Morgana’s wrist. ‘I would have thought that you of all people would know how precious memories of lost loved ones can be.’  


‘I do. Which is why this will be returned to you when I have the throne of Camelot,’ Morgana said, pocketing the knife.  


Mithian wondered if Morgana remembered that she’d used it once herself, as a child, when a squire wouldn’t leave the two of them alone in peace. They had been sat on the bridge together, looking out over the citadel, only weeks before Morgana had been dragged to Camelot. Mithian, much to her disgrace, had forgotten the name of the boy long ago – he’d been killed during a training accident – but she recalled that he hadn’t been able to heed the advice of his knight. Sir Owain had been charged with keeping an eye on them but had always kept a respectful distance away: after all, she and Morgana had been children. His squire, however, had not. Looking back, Mithian had perhaps been too harsh on him; he had probably only wanted to be included, but at that young age she had been jealous of anyone who approached Morgana. She’d shown Morgana the knife about half an hour before the incident and Morgana had asked for it when this boy would not leave them alone. And Mithian, being in constant awe of her, had wordlessly handed it over and watched her shout that she’d throw it if he came one step closer.  


He had done and Morgana had thrown it at him – or, rather, near him. It had sailed right over the edge of the bridge and then they’d scampered down together to retrieve it.  


Mithian, nursing her hand, raised her eyes. ‘This isn’t what you want, is it? You’re just doing what Morgause wanted you to do.’  


‘You have no idea about what I want.’  


‘You used to tell me.’  


Morgana kept her eyes fixed to the ground. ‘That was a long time ago. You used to not threaten me.’  


‘I could say the same for you,’ Mithian sharply retorted. ‘You might have been the victim several years ago, but you’re not now, no matter what story you spin. I thought that Odin was using you. He’s not, though, is he?’  


‘You think I’d let a man control me again?’ scoffed Morgana, head snapping up. ‘He does _my_ bidding. I don’t do his.’  


Mithian’s gaze roved across the form dripping with firelight. The shadows that had been lurking during their last encounter had nearly devoured her completely and there was a hollowness in her eyes where compassion had always been. For years, Morgana had shaped her dreams and desires. She’d turned down numerous suitors in the vain hope that she’d return to Nemeth and Mithian had only accepted Arthur’s proposal because of the slim chance that they might reconcile. Until now, Mithian had been blind to the alterations of her first love. It wasn’t Morgana that was sat opposite her: it was a puppet that Morgause had manipulated, left untethered and unchecked after her death. And there was nothing Mithian could do.  


She could have chased after her, in that previous lifetime, tracked her down and whisked her away from her sister’s influence. But then Morgana would have resented her for snatching her away from her only family. And that resentment would have driven a wedge between them that would have been much more keenly felt than the present divide. Of course, she didn’t understand Morgana’s current hatred towards her, but confusion was significantly preferable to torment and the knowledge that her position in Morgana’s heart was deteriorating further each day that they stirred together. No. It was no use dwelling on what could have been. Morgana had made her choice and Mithian had respected that decision. They were both reaping what they had sown.  


And Mithian knew that if Morgana put her arms around her now then it would be with a vice-like grip, not the soft steel that had always characterised her embraces. If she kissed her mouth, it would be laced with the bitter sting of blood, not the playful bite of honeysuckle. And if she called her name into the quiet of the night, it would be a curse and not a prayer.  


She rearranged the skirts of her dress and bit back tears. To lose her kingdom, her father, and her closest friend on the same night was something that she had been unprepared for. Her father, if all went as Morgana intended, would return to her, but her lands would presumably pass to either Morgana or Odin, and she would lose the allies she had made in Camelot. Mithian closed her eyes. She had never had grand designs; she had only wanted to travel through life without many obstacles, to keep the peace where she could and to defend her homeland when necessary.  


Mithian opened her eyes and cast a glance over at Morgana again. They could have had everything. Mithian would have laid down her life to protect Morgana from persecution. They could have ridden into battle against the world, side by side, and gently built a new regime with their bare hands, if Morgana hadn’t abandoned her. If Morgana hadn’t been so eager to destroy everything good that had been constructed over the past few years.  


Arthur had slowly erased Uther’s legacy. Morgana threatened to continue Uther’s legacy if she annihilated Arthur’s and reigned with paranoia and fear. And fear was a brittle material to build the foundations of a regime on. Particularly when the ruler had been subject to it herself.  


‘You’ve changed, Morgana,’ she quietly said, unable to help herself.  


‘And you haven’t, apart from the threatening.’ Morgana tossed a stick into the fire. ‘And your hair. It’s gotten darker.’  


‘Must be a consequence of the darkness you left when you touched my heart.’  


Morgana laughed bitterly. ‘Perhaps you have changed after all.’  


Her eyes found Mithian’s and travelled down to the injury the princess was shielding. Silently she stood, taking deliberate steps as she approached her old companion and squatted down beside her. Mithian flinched as her hand was taken between Morgana’s palms and words were breathed into the night. Then, as swiftly as she had taken Mithian’s hand, Morgana dropped it and returned to her seat, poking at the fire once more.  


‘Get some sleep. We start before dawn tomorrow.’  


Mithian stared down at her hand, which now bore only the pink shadow of a burn. She wanted to scream at Morgana, to tear open her mind and plunge her hand into the depths of her swirling thoughts, but Mithian didn’t have the energy for that tonight. Not after she’d exhausted herself over trying to pinpoint the precise moment where she had lost the Morgana she loved.  


Sliding down the log and covering herself with a cloak, Mithian warily kept her eyes on Morgana, wishing that she’d had the foresight to strap a second knife to her thigh. As the world gradually became blurred, Morgana faded into the image of the first time Mithian had met her, when she had been wearing a crown of daisies and had rivalled the sun with her warmth. When Mithian eventually closed her eyes, she could feel the imprint of Morgana’s body beside her like she never would again: a bank between her and the rugged realms that threatened to collapse on top of her. And when she drifted off to sleep, it was to the lullaby of gentle words that would never be whispered to her in consecrated woods again.


	5. Camelot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a month of exchanging letters with Guinevere, Mithian is arriving in Camelot for the first time since being forced there by Morgana. Old friends are reunited and new alliances are forged as the new Golden Age begins to tentatively flourish.

**Camelot**

_Seven months after Camlann_

The silhouette of the citadel rose from amongst the trees and Mithian, having taken several minutes to drink in its beauty, glanced behind her. ‘Merlin? I know I was the one to push you into doing this, but if you feel that you cannot remain here then you will always be welcome in Nemeth. I remember how sincerely Arthur trusted your council and it would be an honour to have you at court.’  


Merlin, who had been looking anywhere but directly in front of him, trotted to fall in step with her. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’  


She gave him a look and a warm smile. ‘How many more times, Merlin?’  


There was the grin she remembered from Camelot, the one that had sprouted across his face more frequently over the past couple of weeks. ‘Once more.’  


‘Call me Mithian.’  


‘Noted, Mithian.’ His eyes slid across the landscape, retracting straight back to her as soon as they lighted on Camelot. ‘This can’t be easy for you, either, given what happened the last time you were here.’  


Mithian ducked her head. ‘I’ve been trying not to think about it, if I’m honest.’  


‘Sorry.’  


Her head jerked up and she fixed Merlin with a reassuring look. ‘You do not need to apologise. I said I’ve been _trying_ not to think about it, I didn’t say that I’ve not been thinking about it.’ She glanced behind them, eyes falling on the small group of knights bringing up the rear. ‘I’m thinking that perhaps we should briefly rest and collect ourselves before entering the city, what do you think?’  


‘I think that’s a good idea.’  


Motioning to the knights as Merlin cried up to the sky, Mithian dismounted and gave Merlin her hand as he did the same, supporting his weight with her arm. He hadn’t said much about where he had been following the events of Camlann, but the state he had been in when he had been discovered outside Nemeth’s gates had spoken multitudes. In the month that had since elapsed, Mithian had kept up a steady correspondence with Queen Guinevere of Camelot regarding Merlin’s progress as she had gradually coaxed him to build up his strength again.  


His hair, grazing his shoulders, was significantly less tangled than it had been and, still supporting him, they sat down together on a log. Mithian ran her fingers through it as a makeshift comb, teasing out knots made by the wind and ignoring his muffled yelps. Wordlessly, she braided the top half and deftly twisted it at the back of his head, loosing several pins from her own hair to secure his.  


‘You looked like you’d been dragged through a hedge backwards and we could not have that on my first official visit as Queen of Nemeth.’  


Merlin pulled free a couple of strands to frame his face. ‘No, we could not.’ He looked around and chewed on his lower lip. ‘I once made a horse out of smoke there,’ he finally said, pointing at a clearing in front of them. ‘Someone saw and called the Witchfinder.’  


Mithian put her hand on his knee. ‘Magic is no longer forbidden here, Guinevere has made sure of that.’  


‘I know,’ he softly replied, withdrawing a letter from a pocket by his heart. ‘She wrote to me a month ago. I never replied.’ Briefly closing his eyes, he stuffed the letter back inside his jacket. ‘Anyway. This isn’t about me. This is about you forming a stronger alliance with Camelot.’  


‘This is me _attempting_ to form a stronger alliance with Camelot. It might backfire very badly,’ Mithian reminded him, standing up. ‘What is beneficial to Nemeth might not necessarily be beneficial to Camelot.’  


Registering Merlin’s smile, the queen leaned against a tree and looked towards the city. It felt odd to be visiting the castle that Morgana had dwelled in for so many years when she was no longer on this earth. She hadn’t discovered that Morgana was dead until several days after Merlin had arrived, let alone that he had been the one to kill her. Everyone had been so concerned with Arthur that, when Morgana had melted into obscurity, nobody had paid her much mind. After all, who would mourn her loss? Only Aithusa, perhaps, but she had arrived at Nemeth months before Merlin.  


It had been a sight to behold her knights in the courtyard of the palace, armed with swords but not one of them wanting to go near the creature. Mithian had been in a council meeting and arguing for an accord with Odin when Owain had burst in gasping about a dragon interrupting his training session with the young knights. Bemused, Mithian had followed him out and been met with the circle of Nemeth’s finest having no clue what to do next.  


Mithian had never had any experience with dragons – nobody alive had except for Merlin, but she hadn’t known that at the time – and, after assessing the situation, had told the knights to leave the dragon alone. After all, the palace wasn’t merrily burning, nor was the kingdom crumbling, so having a dragon skulking about the citadel clearly wasn’t a threat to life. Of course, not being of magic herself, she hadn’t known the dragon’s name until Merlin had arrived, calling her Albion when she brought food for her each day. Dragons had been around when the land had been one kingdom, after all, and Mithian had never been very good at inventing names.  


Aithusa had never strayed outside of the city walls until the night that Merlin arrived, which was how he’d been found so quickly. The dragon had become as much a part of the court as Mithian herself, and when she had taken off in the early hours of the morning and hovered just outside the gates, crying out frantically, Mithian had been immediately alerted. That night had been the first time Aithusa had ventured inside, and she hadn’t left Merlin’s side until he had been able to walk unaided. It was the first time that Aithusa had left him that Merlin had told Mithian that he had killed Morgana, as if he hadn’t wanted to confess it within Aithusa’s earshot.  


Smiling as the dragon landed beside her, Mithian held out her hand and gently stroked Aithusa’s head after receiving the obligatory sniff. Merlin had turned his head towards them and was watching the interaction with a grin, as he always did when he saw how besotted Aithusa was with the queen – and vice versa. In his hands was the knife Mithian had given him, the one that had belonged to her mother. It had suffered some damage after being thrown in the fire by Morgana but it was as reliable a blade as could be found, and Merlin had needed a reliable blade when he had first approached her about learning to use a knife in exchange for him teaching her magic.  


‘I hope you’re not intending to use that, Merlin.’  


Sheathing it, Merlin raised an eyebrow. ‘Your sword may be ceremonial but I know full well that you have two knives under your dress.’  


‘You never know when you’re going to be attacked by bandits,’ Mithian reasoned, looking away to tickle Aithusa’s stomach. ‘Do you, Aithusa? No, you don’t.’  


‘Dragons are ancient and noble creatures,’ Merlin began, before being interrupted.  


‘And are adorable. Aithusa doesn’t mind. Has she complained to you about it?’  


‘No, but her grasp of language is only in its very early stages—’  


‘Therefore she doesn’t mind.’ Mithian straightened. ‘Right. What are we not going to spiral about once we get inside those gates?’  


‘Morgana,’ Merlin answered as she started pacing up and down, nodding at his response. ‘Me failing everything, even destiny itself. You messing things up with Gwen. Arthur’s death. Morgana—’  


‘You’ve already said Morgana.’  


‘I thought you could use a second reminder. And that one was partially for me.’  


Pausing in her pacing, Mithian’s face softened. ‘You did what you had to do. She wasn’t the person we knew.’ Instinctively, she patted Aithusa again. ‘Anything else?’  


Merlin’s last reply was as quiet as the autumn leaves on a windy day. ‘Betraying my friends by having magic.’  


‘You’re my friend and you know that having magic doesn’t make you a traitor in my eyes. If they all turn on you, you always have me, yes?’  


Mimicking Mithian’s sharp nod, Merlin stood up and softly called Aithusa over to him. ‘Shall we do this before either of us throw up from the anticipation?’  


‘I’m a queen, Merlin, I do not throw up,’ Mithian sternly said, nodding towards the knights who had been leaning against trees and quietly talking. ‘In front of other people, at least,’ she added as she mounted her horse once more. ‘Now, where is the best place to gather flowers for Guinevere?’

‘Leon?’ Guinevere, having knocked on the door to the knight’s chambers, poked her head round it. ‘Are you here?’  


There was a muffled reply and Leon stepped out from behind a screen, tightening his belt. ‘Gwen! Is everything alright? Is the baby okay?’  


Guinevere glanced down at her enlarged abdomen. It had been kicking throughout the night, beating against her like the echo of the drum in her head at the thoughts pummelling against the walls of her mind. ‘Yes, the baby is fine. I actually wanted to talk to you about Queen Mithian. _Without_ the council,’ she emphasised, noticing his mouth open. ‘I trust your advice and this is somewhat of a personal matter.’  


Pulling out a chair for her, Leon seated himself at the table. ‘What is it?  


Now settled in the chair, Guinevere clasped her hands together and rested her chin on them. ‘I haven’t worked out the fine details yet but...I’m thinking of strengthening the alliance between Camelot and Nemeth. Through marriage.’  


‘As flattered as I am, Your Majesty, I couldn’t leave you or Camelot—’  


Guinevere laughed lightly. ‘Don’t worry, Leon, I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about me and Mithian.’  


Leon fell back in his chair. ‘Oh. I see.’  


‘It’s just—’ Guinevere dropped her hands to trace patterns in the woodwork. ‘—Arthur clearly respected her enough to be willing to marry her and we are both queens ruling alone and...I feel things when I read her letters. It’s not love exactly, not yet, it’s too soon after Arthur for that, but it’s a kinship, almost. I feel drawn to her. Does that make sense?’  


‘Yes, yes, it does.’  


‘So, what do you think?’  


Leon studied her for a few minutes, and she could feel his eyes turning back time to when they had first met as children, reconciling the image of her then with the image as she sat before him as she was. ‘I think that you do not require my permission. You are the queen and I think you have already decided. I also think this is a way to keep Merlin here for a bit longer as you negotiate things, but that is also not a bad idea.’  


Bowing her head, Guinevere smiled shyly. Merlin had been lurking on the fringes of her mind ever since she had received the initial letter from Mithian and the thought of him unconscious and alone tugged at her heart every time it crossed her mind. Quietly thanking Leon, she rose from the table and made her way slowly to the battlements. Mithian had written to inform her of Morgana’s death at Merlin’s hand and she had been unable to stand for several hours after reading it. She’d never perceived Merlin as a killer, let alone a killer of someone who had been their close friend. Not that Morgana had been her close friend for many years.  


Guinevere ran her hand along the wall. After processing that information, she had gathered herself and come to the conclusion that Merlin being a killer was not something to hold against him. After all, Arthur had slain many men – some out of necessity and others under Uther’s orders – and that hadn’t changed the way she looked at him. And Guinevere herself had killed innocent people when under Morgana’s influence, which was much worse than what Merlin had done. She reached the battlements and took a deep breath.  


Morgana and what she had forced her to do had haunted Guinevere for months, particularly when her mind had been consistently flicking between Arthur and the loss of her own agency. She planted her hands on the battlements, staring down at the lower town. Her whole life had been lived out along those streets that wound up to the castle, had been spent looking up at the place where she worked but would never live, yet there she was. Morgana’s ghost, as she had been when Merlin had first arrived in Camelot, glided through the market stalls and hesitated at the fabrics that Guinevere had handled for her so long ago, and the queen had to turn away.  


When she was alone at night, she could feel handprints burning on her thighs and she could never quite differentiate between the imprint of Arthur’s firm palms and Morgana’s deft fingers. But when she felt the kicks in her abdomen, like she could feel then, it was all Arthur’s determination, not Morgana’s bite. Arthur had left a small piece of himself that night before Camlann, which had manifested into the child she now carried. Morgana had also left small pieces of herself, but they had embedded themselves in Guinevere’s skin like scars. She struggled to separate the two figures of Morgana from each other these days and she was afraid what would happen if she was successful. It would either provide closure or her demise, and she wasn’t strong enough to handle that alone. Not when she had a kingdom to run.  


‘I tried to persuade you to run away with me right there, do you remember?’  


Guinevere turned around and smiled at Gwaine, who was unsteadily approaching her on crutches. ‘I do. I think we can safely say that it turned out for the best that I didn’t say yes.’  


He leaned beside her, looking out wistfully. ‘Arthur and Merlin were standing right here, watching.’  


She glanced at him quickly to discern his expression before turning her face back to the street. ‘You know it’s today that Merlin is coming back?’  


‘Yes.’ Gwaine closed his eyes and sighed. ‘I have these two images of him in my head. I have the Merlin I met at the tavern all that time ago, the one that I knew before Camlann, and then I have this new one, who is supposedly the most powerful sorcerer in the land. And I’m not entirely sure how to reconcile the two.’  


Nodding, Guinevere rested her hand on his. ‘Are you still angry at him?’  


‘No. I’m angry at myself, for believing everything about magic being evil. Everything has the capacity for evil, but we gloss over that, don’t we? But not magic. No, _every_ part of magic is like the devil’s touch.’ Beneath Guinevere’s palm, his hand curled into a fist. ‘To think that Merlin had to endure that hatred by himself for so long...it’s unforgivable. I hated everything Uther stood for, so why did I buy into this mantra for my whole life?’  


‘Because,’ Guinevere quietly said, ‘the threats from magic were very real. In hindsight, they were also justified because Uther had subjected them to so much persecution, but because magic was the most frequent threat we all latched onto the view that it was the most dangerous. Not now. Nobody should have to live in fear for their entire existence, simply because they were born into a land where they are forbidden.’  


‘Do you think he’s forgiven us?’  


‘I think Merlin forgave us all a long time ago. It’s himself whom he’s probably struggling to forgive.’  


Gwaine was silent for several moments before clearing his throat and slipping on a cheerful tone. ‘How’s baby Pendragon doing?’  


Guinevere looked down again with a wry smile. ‘Either very well or very poorly. I didn’t get a minute of sleep last night; they were kicking all the way until dawn.’  


‘How very inconsiderate of them.’ Only now realising that he had intruded upon Guinevere’s thoughts, Gwaine subtly extracted his hand from her grasp. ‘I promised Percival I’d get to him early so we could change into our armour, I’ll see you when they arrive.’  


Nodding, Guinevere gave him a smile and watched him leave. She was relieved that he had started to thoroughly recover from the muscle wastage that weeks in bed had caused, but she was still concerned about him when it came to Merlin. She had long since realised that Gwaine was in love with Merlin – not that he’d ever admit to anyone – but she also knew what damage a hit to an idealised image could do to an individual. Guinevere took another deep breath and reminded herself that what Gwaine felt was not her problem. Arthur had always told her that she cared too much for others and not enough for herself, and she only had a few more months to indulge herself before she had to care for a small human being. He would not be happy if she spent them worrying about Gwaine and Merlin. Of course she could still worry about them, but only if it looked like they were going to get hurt. They hadn’t even seen each other yet.  


As she drummed her fingers on the stone, Guinevere noticed a flying figure swooping low over the castle. Frowning, she leaned further forward, squinting at the silhouette. It was far too big to be a bird and the wing shape was far too ragged for feathers. Her gaze travelled down and she caught sight of several horses, one of them bearing a form dressed in gold beside someone with a brightly-coloured scrap of cloth around their throat. Feeling a thrill in her stomach that was not from the baby, Guinevere covered her smile and made her way to the courtyard to receive her guests.  


When she emerged, Mithian had just entered through the gate and immediately dismounted. She was as beautiful as Guinevere remembered, her frame slightly more muscular and her smile even brighter as she handed the reins to one of Camelot’s knights and moved to offer Merlin a hand. He declined it, jumping down without aid at the same time as the dragon Guinevere had seen dropped down beside him. Several knights instinctively moved closer to the creature and Merlin pulled out a knife with one hand and raised his other, small flames beginning to dance in his palm.  


Mithian placed her hand on his upper arm and murmured several words in his ear, her gaze sliding over to Guinevere. Taking this as her cue, the Queen of Camelot took Leon’s arm and descended the stairs, letting go when she stood mere feet away from the pair. Mithian withdrew her hand and the knife in Merlin’s hand slipped through his fingers as his eyes travelled down Guinevere’s body, resting on her very conspicuous bump.  


His hand raised itself to cover his mouth and he moved forward as if drawn to her by a string. Seeking her permission with his eyes, Merlin then placed that hand on her stomach, tears falling as the baby responded to his touch. Then, ignoring all concepts of decorum, he threw his arms around her neck.  


‘I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed into her hair. ‘I’m so sorry that I couldn’t bring him back here.’  


Gwen placed her hands on his back, closing her eyes. ‘You don’t need to apologise, Merlin; you did everything you possibly could. I’m just glad that you’re here now.’ Pulling away before she began crying herself, she kept a fierce hold on his fingers. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked, nodding towards the dragon.  


‘Aithusa,’ Merlin answered, wiping his face with his sleeve. ‘I hatched her but she found Morgana and stayed with her. After—After Camlann she went away somewhere, then decided to settle in Nemeth a few months before I arrived there. She must have known I would be coming.’  


Pushing aside the pinching twist that had come with Morgana’s name, Gwen smiled. ‘She’s beautiful.’  


Merlin, when Gwen focused on him again, was looking over her shoulder. She followed his gaze and stumbled on Gwaine, who was lurking in the shadows of the entrance to the castle. She gave his hand a squeeze before dropping it. There would be time to talk and cry together later, more than enough time, and the sooner Merlin and Gwaine interacted then the sooner she could either stop worrying about them or start panicking about them. Receiving the message and giving her another hug, Merlin let go of her hand and slipped away to Gwaine.  


Mithian, meanwhile, had been battling with a bunch of flowers she had stored in the belt of her scabbard. As she watched Merlin dart up the steps and uncertainly approach Gwaine before receiving several broken sentences and launching himself at him, she stepped towards Guinevere and bashfully held out the flowers.  


‘I was informed that you like flowers, Your Majesty.’  


Smiling, Guinevere accepted the bunch of wildflowers gracefully. They were so like the ones she had picked for Morgana so many years ago to coax a brilliant smile from her. Guinevere regarded Mithian beneath her lashes, still pretending to be occupied by the flowers. She’d only ever known her with hair that reminded her so much of Morgana’s, but Leon had mentioned that it had been significantly lighter when she had met Arthur for the first time. It wasn’t her place to ask what had made it alter so. Thanking her again for the flowers, she guided the queen into the castle and glanced behind them as Aithusa split from the group to sit by Merlin and Gwaine, who had their fingers intertwined as they quietly exchanged words in the enclosed stairway to their left.  


They walked through corridors that Guinevere had chased after Morgana in, corridors that her whole life had been shaped by. If she glanced out the window then she could see the spot where she had seen Arthur for the first time, then the spot where Morgana was buried, followed by the spot where she, Elyan and Leon had sat together each day when the sun was at its highest. Eventually Guinevere returned her attention to Mithian and hovered outside her chambers as they reached where the guest would be staying.  


Mithian took several bags from a servant who had detached them from her horse and looked towards the door. ‘You can come in, Your Majesty, this is your castle.’  


‘Guinevere, please.’  


Flashing her a quick smile, Mithian began to unpack and murmured a few words to the servant about preferring to do it by herself, but thanking them all the same. As Mithian’s knights were directed to their living quarters, the two queens were left alone. Guinevere watched her guest unfold several dresses, all in luminous metallic hues, and hang them up carefully in the wardrobe.  


Mithian looked over to her. ‘You should not be standing for prolonged periods, Guinevere, please sit down.’ Satisfied that she was settled, Mithian gently removed the pins from her hair and let it tumble down over her shoulders. ‘If you want to ask something, I don’t mind. I noticed you looking at my hair in the courtyard,’ she added.  


The heat rose in Guinevere’s cheeks. ‘Leon—Sir Leon mentioned that your hair was lighter the first time you came to Camelot. I was just curious at how swiftly it had changed from bronze, I think he described it as, to this.’  


‘You and the rest of Nemeth,’ Mithian said with a wry smile, moving to close the door. ‘It wasn’t immediate; it happened over the span of two years. Which wouldn’t have been strange if I had been younger and if either of my parents had had dark hair in their younger years.’ She sat down herself, pulling the ends of her hair through her fingers. ‘I’d wake up every morning with an abyssal sense of hollowness in my stomach, too, it was very strange. Then, about a year and a half ago, there was an overwhelming anger within me and my hair had reached this colour.’ Mithian let her hair fall. ‘My father thought I’d been cursed. I think, in a way, I had been.’  


‘You know what caused it, then?’  


‘I can take a guess. Morgana and I were friends from early childhood. When two people grow up together from a young age, their souls are so entwined that it’s difficult to separate them without killing one or both of them.’ Mithian looked down. ‘She touched my heart intimately, many years ago, and I wondered—I wondered if her magic had somehow penetrated that bond and attached itself to me. I know it sounds ridiculous.’  


Guinevere reached out for her hand. ‘It doesn’t sound ridiculous. Morgana was powerful but she didn’t know what she was doing in the early days, I don’t think. She could have easily accidentally bound the two of you together, particularly if you if you—’  


Catching the rest of the sentence in Guinevere’s eyes, Mithian laughed lightly. ‘Oh, no, that’s not really for me. It’s more about the emotional connection for me, with a bit of kissing, perhaps.’ The smile on her face flickered like ripples in a river. ‘But I gave her intimate parts of me through words, which can be just as binding.’  


‘It can,’ Guinevere agreed. ‘Morgana was buried in a living tomb for two years and she escaped about a year and a half ago.’  


Mithian fell back in her chair. ‘She never told me that. Of course she didn’t tell me that. She wouldn’t. We weren’t friends when we last saw each other.’ Extracting her hand, Mithian rubbed her forehead with both of them. ‘I’m sorry, you’d think I would have come to terms with everything by now. It’s just...I don’t know.’ She raised her head. ‘Do you think that’s how she survived? Through me?’  


‘I—I don’t know. Merlin is probably the best person to ask. Or Gaius.’ Guinevere bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry for bringing this up.’  


‘What? No, Guinevere, please don’t worry. It’s absolutely fine, honestly, it helps to talk to someone about her.’ Mithian spared her another smile. ‘Nobody in Nemeth really knew her well enough and Merlin has had enough to deal with this past month.’  


‘She’s buried here,’ Guinevere quietly said. ‘A patrol found her body. We buried her on the edge of the Darkling Woods.’  


‘Is it alright if I see?’  


‘Of course.’  


Mithian hurried to stand and help Guinevere up, taking her arm firmly. The flowers were still in the Queen of Camelot’s hand and she kept them in a tight grip as they slowly made their way to the fringe of the wood. Absent-mindedly, Mithian ran her finger back and forth over the soft velvet of Guinevere’s sleeve as she took in the surroundings.  


The scents of Camelot were more muted than those of Nemeth and somehow she was able to smell the wind. It was very unnerving. Casting a sly glance towards to her host, she could see why Arthur had been so besotted with her. She had forgotten how beautiful Guinevere was physically, but the beauty of her language and her soul had been transmitted through letters almost every other day. Mithian had traced the sentences that Guinevere had shaped in the secrecy of candlelight when she was wrapped up in bed, had even dared to read out passages to Merlin in recent weeks, and had consumed all her words like they were the last dregs of water in a desert. She wasn’t entirely sure about the logistics just yet, but she had a speech written in case she flailed and the delicate amber ring was attached to a ribbon in case she dropped it. Mithian had just needed one last look to confirm her decision and she took it then, as they approached a grassy mound.  


Then she glanced down at the mound and all thoughts of marriage shot from her head. Staring at the raised ground, images of her father’s tomb flashes before her eyes along with a multitude of memories with Morgana. Her own hand thrust in the fire, Morgana sparring with a knight, the two of them kissing by the river, Mithian’s feet slipping on wet stones on the riverbed as she scrambled to grip Morgana, watching Morgana ride away from her every single time.  


She let go of Guinevere’s arm and dropped to the ground, fighting to regain control of her breathing pattern. As her fingers dug into the same earth that Morgana was buried in she immediately pulled them loose and closed her eyes, focusing on the parts of Guinevere’s letters she’d memorised as a way to ground herself. Gradually, she became aware of Guinevere’s hand on her back, her body pressed close to hers, and Mithian opened her eyes.  


‘Sorry. I’ve been getting better at managing those.’  


Guinevere had moved to making circles with her hand. ‘There’s no need to apologise. It is very confronting, I completely understand. We were intimate once and that...that leaves a stain on you that can’t be removed.’  


Mithian looked towards her. ‘How do you always manage to phrase everything so poetically yet so succinctly?’  


Ducking her head, Guinevere hid a self-conscious smile. ‘I put in a lot of effort when I was crowned. As much I do not wish to erase my past, I also want to avoid every opportunity for officials and allies to mock me.’  


‘I’d never mock you, Guinevere.’  


‘I know you wouldn’t.’ Their eyes met. ‘I trust you completely, even though I barely know you.’  


Mithian placed one hand on her arm lightly, so as to avoid coating the rich fabric in dirt, and chose her next words very carefully. ‘I would give up my own kingdom for you if you asked me to.’  


‘Funny you should say that,’ Guinevere said, drawing away from Mithian to remove a ring from her hand. When she closed her fingers around it, she could still feel Arthur’s skin brushing against hers, her tears falling onto his fingers. ‘Because I have a proposal for you.’  


Mithian covered her laugh with her mouth, smearing dirt across her cheek. With her other hand she fumbled with a pouch attached to her belt, withdrawing a ring knotted in a ribbon. It caught the sunlight and Guinevere caught sight of a band design that resembled tree roots, interspersed with delicate blossoms, inset with an amber stone. The ring Arthur had given her seemed plain in comparison, but Mithian was staring at it as if it was as enchanting as Guinevere’s crown.  


‘Coincidentally,’ Mithian said, ‘so do I.’  


Guinevere looked at the ring again and was unable to contain a short laugh. ‘I thought that I was going to have to give you a whole speech before you agreed,’ she confessed, withdrawing a slip of parchment from her sleeve.  


‘Guinevere, I resisted all my father’s attempts to marry me off for just under a decade. He was only one man. I would not have been able to resist the attempts of my entire council for a month if I had not accepted your proposal.’ Mithian fumbled in her pouch again. ‘I also wrote a speech.’  


They sat, either side of Morgana’s grave, both with a ring in one hand and an unsaid speech in the other. The silence stretched out between them until Mithian cracked first and cleared her throat.  


‘Queen Guinevere of Camelot. We have met only twice – thrice, if you count the whole deer thing that Merlin told me about, but because of negative associations we won’t dwell on that for the time being – but I feel as if I already know your heart. We’ve both been fucked over by Morgana and there is no-one on this earth who I would rather have that shared experience with. I cared a great deal for Arthur, but I care a great deal more for you and the combined kingdom we can build together, if you—’ She paused to smile, inclining her head. ‘—and your child will have me.’  


Hand shaking, she held out the ring. Guinevere looked down at the ring and put one hand to her stomach. ‘Kick for no,’ she quietly instructed, ‘and remain still for yes.’ The two monarchs waited with baited breath for several seconds before Guinevere took her hand away. There had been no kick. ‘Of course I’ll have you, Mithian. And our child clearly will.’  


Guinevere moved to accept the ring and Mithian’s fingers closed around it so she could slide it onto the former’s hand. Once it was settled, she went to untie the knot, but Guinevere’s fingers closed around Mithian’s then. Whispering to leave it for the moment, the Queen of Camelot gently placed her ring onto the Queen of Nemeth’s finger and they sat in silence, absorbing the enormity of their new alliance.  


Then, ever so cautiously, Mithian dropped her parchment to reach up to Guinevere’s face. There would be time to exchange speeches and discuss their words, more than enough time, and for the moment Mithian’s eyes asked the question that Guinevere had been burning to answer.  


Their lips delicately met under the canopy of clouds skimming the circumference of the sun, breathing the promise of a new era, and the mark left on Guinevere this time was not a scar, but a thin line of dirt from Mithian’s fingertips. She smiled beneath her mouth. It was ironic how the stain she wouldn’t mind being perpetual would easily fade. There was a warmth thrumming through them both that had never been present in Morgana, a security leaking from their pores that strung them together with the fierce oath of constancy. The flowers from Mithian were strewn around them, forming an island of which they were the sole survivors, and when Mithian broke away the sweet heat of honey was still on her lips.  


‘I have no idea how this will work logistically, by the way,’ she said, trying to catch her breath.  


Guinevere reached out for her again. ‘Neither do I. But we can figure it out together.’  


When they kissed again, the image of Morgana melted away like snow in spring, clinging only to the shadowed parts of their minds. Her roots would always linger, but Mithian and Guinevere were nurturing a new tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has made it to the end of this incredibly self-indulgent fic! And, once again, a huge thank you to @donttouchtheneednoggle, @theinternetwearingatrenchcoat, @fluffypotatey, @onceandfuturehimbo and @little-ligi on tumblr for all of their help and support! And to @atlantablack who made me think that Gwaine asking Gwen to come with him in exile at the end of 'Gwaine' was canon, so I accidentally incorporated that into this chapter. 
> 
> And I'll just leave the playlist for this fic here:  
> \- 'ivy' (Taylor Swift)  
> \- 'Shades of Blue' (Aston Edminster)  
> \- 'Lay All Your Love On Me' (The Butterfly Effect)  
> \- 'Set The Fire To The Third Bar' (Snow Patrol & Martha Wainwright)  
> \- 'Where's My Love' (SYML)  
> \- 'willow' (Taylor Swift/Rain Paris cover)  
> \- 'Death By A Thousand Cuts' (Taylor Swift)  
> \- 'Pretty Venom' (All Time Low)  
> \- 'my tears ricochet' (Taylor Swift)  
> \- 'Messed Up' (Chloe Adams & Once Monsters)


End file.
